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ADVISORY BEN 

A Story 

BY 

E. V. LUCAS 


NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 








COPYRIGHT, 1924, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


/ 





ADVISORY BEN 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


MAl< 25 1924 Q 

©C1A77SG39 -V- 


rt * V* 


ADVISORY BEN 


m 


ADVISORY BEN 


i 

In the lives of all, even the least enterprising 
or adventurous, moments now and then arrive 
when a decision has to be made; and our demean¬ 
our at such times throws a strong light upon our 
character. Many of us postpone action, either 
sheltering behind a natural reluctance to do 
anything emphatic, or feeling that the Fates 
ought to arrange our affairs for us. After all, it 
is their metier . 

But my Ben was not like that. My Ben (to 
give her her full name, Benita Staveley) was 
instantly practical, and her disapproval of the 
pastoral process known as letting the grass grow 
under your feet was intense. All her actions were 
prompt, without, however, coming within the 
zone of impulse. Even at twenty-two she en¬ 
visaged a situation with perfect clearness, and 
knew her mind; but why I should mention 
twenty-two as though it were a tender age, I 
can’t explain, except as the result of pure want 
7 


8 


ADVISORY BEN 


of thought. To say of a man that he is twenty- 
two is often merely to accuse him of callowness; 
but in a woman twenty-two can be maturity in 
everything but actual physique; and this is es¬ 
pecially the case with those who, like Ben, even 
from young girlhood have been relied upon by 
father, mother, brothers and sisters to solve their 
difficulties and make things smooth for them. 

Ever since I have known Ben—and her mother 
and I were playfellows half a century and more 
ago—she has been a mixture of factotum and 
oracle, yet without ever for a moment declining 
into a drudge or losing gaiety. A Cinderella per¬ 
haps ; but a Cinderella who went to the ball with¬ 
out any supernatural assistance; a Cinderella 
with a laugh and a retort; a Cinderella who won 
respect and as much chocolate as she wanted, 
both from those within the home and out of it. 
Not a few boxes, for instance, from my own 
hand. 

But there had, as yet, been no glass slipper 
and no Prince, unless, of course, you count poor 
Tommy Clinton as one: Tommy, who has been 
coming home every summer from his billet in 
Madeira for the past six years with two master¬ 
ing motives to impel him—one being the wish to 
carry off something, either in singles or doubles, 
at Wimbledon, and the other to propose again to 


ADVISORY BEN 9 

Ben—and so far has had no success in either 
enterprise. 

Personally I am glad that she didn’t marry 
Tommy, for he takes his defeats too sweetly, 
almost indeed as though he preferred them to 
victories. Such plastic and easy-going youths, 
although they may be agreeable enough during 
the time of courtship, and as dancing partners, 
or even as husbands for a little while, never grow 
into the sterner stuff that our Bens require, 
desire and deserve. But girls who have the Atlas 
habit run, of course, great risks of attracting the 
men who want to be treated as though they were 
the world. 

Under the circumstances it is a little odd that 
Ben, save for the punctual, if casual, annual at¬ 
tack of Tommy Clinton, was unpursued; but 
one has to remember that Colonel Staveley did 
not like young men about the house. Not that 
that makes any difference when passion rules, for 
we know how Love treats locksmiths; but at the 
time this story opens Ben was heart-free. She 
might appear indeed to strangers to look like 
becoming one of those attractive girls who some¬ 
how or other seem to be insufficiently attractive 
ever to marry. But I never thought so. She had, 
however, no doubt, missed the first matrimonial 


10 


ADVISORY BEN 


train, the one that conveys to the altar carriage- 
loads of immature, high-spirited couples on the 
edge of the twenties. Other trains come along 
later, but the service is not so good. 


ADVISORY BEN 


11 


II 

When a girl has been keeping house for her 
father for three or four years and her father then 
(although sixty-three) marries again, her posi¬ 
tion is not easy, nor does it demand a blind belief 
in all the malignant tradition that surrounds 
stepmothers to admit this. As a matter of fact, 
Colonel Staveley’s new wife would probably have 
been happier if her stepdaughter had remained 
in the house. Indeed, I am sure of it, for she 
is neither a jealous woman nor a meddlesome; 
and Ben’s knowledge of her home and of its 
master’s ways would have made life more simple, 
while the girl herself would have been a compan¬ 
ion when that master was playing bridge at his 
club or informing such of his fellow-members as 
would still listen to him what the Government— 
if it had a grain of sense—would do. 

For some time—we are now in the year 1921— 
Ben and her father had had the house to them¬ 
selves, for her mother was dead. This lady, I 
ought to say, had displayed something like genius 
in the ordered way in which at definite intervals. 


12 


ADVISORY BEN 


and with discreet alternations of sex, she had put 
her children into the world; first a girl and then 
a boy, and then a girl and then a boy, and so on 
—beginning with Alicia as long ago as 1883, and 
then Cecil in 1887, and then Merrill in 1890, and 
then Guy in 1894, until her youngest daughter’s 
turn to arrive came in 1899, and Toby’s, her 
youngest son’s in 1902, and the tale was com¬ 
plete. 

Of these six, when Colonel Staveley married 
again, only Ben was at home. Alicia had become 
Mrs. Bertrand Lyle and the mother of two boys 
and was now a widow; Cecil, who was a soldier in 
India, had married a French girl and was child¬ 
less ; Merrill had married a Hampshire vicar and 
was childless; Guy, also a soldier in India, was 
engaged to Melanie Ames, a friend of Ben’s; 
and as for Toby, he was nominally imbibing 
learning at Oxford, but, like so many under¬ 
graduates of my acquaintance, seemed more often 
to be imbibing other things in London. I don’t 
mean to excess, but dancing is a thirsty form of 
industry, and late hours have been known to lead 
to early restoratives. 

Ever since Mrs. Staveley’s death, the Colonel 
had counted on Ben, who was then eighteen, for 
everything that would promote his comfort. He 
knew—none better—that the first essential of a 


ADVISORY BEN 


13 


selfish man is an entourage of unselfish people. 
And of these Ben was the chief. It must not be 
thought that the Colonel was a bully; rather, a 
martinet. He suffered from a too early retire¬ 
ment, aggravated by his wife’s meekness and com¬ 
placency, and as he had not thrown himself into 
any amateur work, and was, by nature, indolent 
and conversational, he was left with far too much 
leisure in which to detect domestic blemishes. A 
pedant for routine, his eye, when it came to any 
kind of disorder or novelty of arrangement, was 
like a gun. There was one place and one only 
for every article in the house, beginning with the 
hat-stand in the hall; and his first instinct, if not 
thought, on entering his front door was to look 
for something out of position. And so onwards, 
through whatever rooms he passed. 

When he descried a fault it was, formerly, his 
wife, and latterly Ben, who was court-martialled; 
and not the actual offender. This probably, 
while fortunate for that person, was even more 
fortunate for the Colonel, who might other¬ 
wise have been without cooks and parlourmaids 
most of his life, for servants often put up a better 
resistance to martinets than the martinets’ own 
flesh and blood. But whereas Mrs. Staveley had 
been reduced too often to tears, Ben bore the 
assaults with a courageous or stoical humour. 


14 


ADVISORY BEN 


“I can’t conceive,” the Colonel had exclaimed 
wrathfully, on the very day before this story be¬ 
gins, “why on earth people can’t leave my um¬ 
brella alone.” 

“But it’s there all right,” Ben replied. “I 
noticed it in the stand a few minutes ago.” 

“Yes,” he snapped, “but some idiot has rolled 
it up. That new girl, I suppose. I thought she 
looked an officious fool the moment I saw her.” 

“Well, father,” said Ben, “if she did roll it up, 
it was purely through excess of zeal, that’s all; 
and don’t let us be too hard on excess of zeal in 
these times, when almost everyone is so slack.” 

“But what about her being too hard on my 
umbrella?” the Colonel demanded. “That’s 
what I complain of. If I leave it unrolled— 
which I did very carefully and on purpose—it’s 
no business of anyone else to roll it up. And no 
woman can roll an umbrella, anyway. It’s an 
art.” 

“All right, father,” said Ben, “it shan’t hap¬ 
pen again.” 

“I hope not,” the Colonel barked back, “and 
it wouldn’t have happened this time if you’d kept 
Atkinson. I can’t think why you let her go.” 

“My dear father,” said Ben, “I’ve told you 
again and again. She left in order to be married. 


ADVISORY BEN 15 

Surely a girl must be allowed to marry if she 
wants.” 

“Pooh!” said the Colonel, with infinite scorn. 
“Marriage!” 

It was on the next day that he announced his 
own engagement, through which Ben was driven 
to come to a decision as to her career. 


16 


ADVISORY BEN 


III 

When Belle Lorimer, the wealthy, merry, or 
at any rate not lachrymose, widow of Vincent 
Lorimer (of Lorimer and Lorimer, the stock¬ 
brokers), agreed to the Colonel’s suggestion that 
together they should tie a second knot, the 
Colonel was probably assuming that Ben’s ca¬ 
pable control and intimate acquaintance with his 
needs and moods would still be available. Never 
an imaginative man, he had probably given no 
thought whatever to his daughter’s temperament 
and character; enough that she was his daughter 
and he her father, that she was solicitous, remem¬ 
bering, and, above all, cheerful, and that she rare¬ 
ly provoked even the semblance of a scene. There 
had been scenes with her mother too often: the 
result less of mismanagement on Mrs. Staveley’s 
part than on the Colonel’s tendency to indulge 
an exacting nature to the full coupled with the 
advantage that the position of husband too often 
confers. For husbands are not merely husbands: 
they are also contemporaries; and as the pre¬ 
dominant partners they have the great pull of 


ADVISORY BEN 


17 


beginning right. Daughters are of another gen¬ 
eration, with fewer obligations, and the power 
actually to rebel, or, if it comes to the worst, bolt. 
Wives have stood at the altar and made promises; 
wives have brought money with them, and mar¬ 
riage settlements often very adroitly drawn up 
in the widower’s interest; wives are too old to be 
influenced by detrimental new ideas. But daugh¬ 
ters are different: daughters have made no prom¬ 
ises, possess no financial resources, and are pain¬ 
fully susceptible to revolutionary notions. They 
are capable even of asking such upheaving ques¬ 
tions as, “Why do I owe any duty to a father I 
didn’t choose?” 

The Colonel may have lacked imagination, 
but some self-protective instinct had worked in 
him to give Ben an easier time than her mother, 
poor woman, had ever had. But sweet as was 
Ben’s nature, she was modernly conscious of 
certain duties and loyalties to one’s own individ¬ 
uality, and, even before she came to talk to me 
about it, had quite determined that now was her 
opportunity to strike out a line for herself. And 
luckily she could to some extent afford it, for in 
addition to a little nest-egg consisting of the ac¬ 
cumulation of interest in her minority, she now 
had, in common with her sisters and brothers, an 
income of two hundred a year from her maternal 


18 


ADVISORY BEN 


grandmother, the terms of that shrewd old lady’s 
last will and testament being the culmination of 
a long series of indignities which, in the Colonel’s 
opinion, she had put upon him. Surely a daugh¬ 
ter (named Mrs. Staveley), he had said, should 
come before grandchildren? But the dead hand 
distributed more wisely. 


ADVISORY BEN 


19 


IV 

Alone one cannot do much on two hundred a 
year, but by pooling expenses two persons can 
exist without squalor on four hundred, especially 
if there is also a reserve in the bank, and this was 
Ben’s idea. Her first step would be to join 
forces with her friend, Melanie Ames, to whom 
her brother Guy, now in India, had been engaged 
for the past three or four years, and share her 
rooms on Campden Hill—nice rooms too, right 
at the top, near the reservoir tower. 

Melanie, who had also two hundred a year, was 
working at the moment as secretary to a Harley 
Street doctor; made his appointments; answered 
the telephone; saw to it (I suppose) that no 
current numbers of any illustrated papers ever 
got into the waiting-room (for someone must be 
in charge to maintain this inflexible custom) ; sent 
out all his accounts and as many receipts as were 
necessary; occasionally transacted commissions 
for the doctor’s wife, who rarely came to town 
but did not like to think of the Sales going on 
without any of the doctor’s fees to assist them; 


20 


ADVISORY BEN 


and now and then, in the summer, spent Sunday 
with the family at their house at Weybridge, 
where there was an excellent hard court. For 
this she received a salary of four pounds a week, 
which, added to her private income, enabled Miss 
Ames to add butter to her bread as a regular 
habit and, in her own phrase, “On the top of the 
stearic matter now and then to superimpose a 
little jam, old dear.” 

In whatever way Ben was to augment her own 
private income, it certainly would not be by act¬ 
ing as any doctor’s secretary. She felt herself to 
be more restless, more creative, more managing 
than that. Her nature demanded the things 
of the moment and constant activity, and 
it would gall her to have to suppress anything 
that was up to date. But as to what she was 
going to do, she had not yet a glimmering. The 
first thing was to transfer herself to those nice 
rooms and Melanie’s comforting, languid society, 
and it was during the Colonel’s protracted and 
lavish honeymoon (which the late Vincent Lori- 
mer paid for) in the South of France that Ben 
took down the water-colours and photographs in 
her sitting-room in the great obsolete house in 
Hyde Park Gardens, with its myriad stairs and 
no lift, and, with such furniture and books as were 
hers, moved to Aubrey Walk. 


21 


ADVISORY BEN 

She then paid a long-promised visit to the coun¬ 
try ; and it was while she was staying there—with 
the Fred Lintots in Devonshire—that her great 
idea came to her. Like most of the best ideas, it 
came not with concentration and anxiety, but in 
a flash, and, also like most of the best ideas, it 
was the result of chance. I can refer to it with 
some authority because I was a fellow-guest and 
was in, so to speak, at the birth. 

An American visitor being expected, the laws 
of hospitality (as well as those of his own coun¬ 
try) decreed that a cocktail-shaker was essential. 
But there was none, nor could any shopkeeper 
within a radius of many miles produce one. No 
doubt, civilization having made inroads even on 
the desert, such articles might have been found 
on the sideboard of more than one Dartmoor 
mansion; but behind a counter, no; and the un¬ 
fortunate New Yorker with his (alleged) vision 
of England as a promised land flowing with gin 
and whisky seemed to be in danger of heart¬ 
break. 

“What we who live in the depths of the country 
all need,” said Mrs. Lintot, “is a London agent. 
Someone to do little jobs like this for us. I would 
cheerfully give five pounds a year to have a call 
on the services of anyone who would undertake 
London commissions for me. If I knew anyone 


22 


ADVISORY BEN 


like that, I could telegraph and have that shaker 
and all the nasty ingredients for cocktails here 
by the evening train.” 

It was then that a brain wave swept over me. 

“If you will tell me the nearest telephone,” I 
said, “I will arrange it through the hall porter 
at the club,” and I did so. 

It was in the course of our conversation on the 
way back from this telephoning errand, on which 
Ben had accompanied me, that her future was 
practically decided: she would herself become 
the London representative of the Mrs. Fred 
Lintots of the country. Many other duties in 
excess of this one came to be hers, as we shall 
see; but the germ of her activities in the little 
business in which I have the honour to be an ob¬ 
scure partner was the difficulty set up by the 
absent shaker. The Apostle James in his Epistle 
asks us to behold how great a matter a little fire 
kindleth, and the minute origins of deeds that 
shape our ends have always been a source of in¬ 
terest to me; but I never thought that the lack 
of such an article as a cocktail-shaker in Devon¬ 
shire would lead either to my speculating in busi¬ 
ness with my old playmate’s youngest daughter 
or drive me to become its historian. And here, 
although it is outside the scope proper of this 


ADVISORY BEN 


23 


narrative, it may be stated, as yet another ex¬ 
ample of the caprices of this illogical world, that 
when the American arrived he was found to be 
a life-abstainer. 


24 


ADVISORY BEN 


V 

Things on this planet are always happening 
at the same time; and it must follow (since it is 
only through meetings that the machinery is as¬ 
sembled which makes the world continue to exist) 
that, although parallels or divergences are the 
rule, now and then persons simultaneously start 
out upon lines of action which in due course ar¬ 
rive at the same point. It is fortunate that those 
persons are unaware of what the gods are doing 
with them. Life is not such fun that we can 
afford to dispense with the unexpected. 

It chanced that at the very moment when Ben 
and I were discussing Mrs. Lintot’s scheme at 
Dartmoor, Mr. John Harford, in the garden of 
Laycock Manor, was informing his startled 
mother that he had decided to chuck the law and 
open a second-hand book shop. 

Mrs. Harford was properly horrified. The 
Harfords so far had been able to avoid trade. 

“But this isn’t trade,” said her son. “This is 
a lark.” 

“Do you call it a lark,” his mother inquired, 


ADVISORY BEN 


25 


“to be covered with dust—for there’s nothing so 
dusty as old books, and very likely to catch hor¬ 
rible diseases—for there are no germ carriers 
like old books either? And”—she went on, be¬ 
fore he could reply—“do you call it a lark to have 
to bargain with customers, because no one ever 
gives as much for an old book as it is marked? 
Even I know that. That’s not my notion of a 
lark, anyway. And you’ll have to start early, 
and leave late, and your health will go, and your 
nice looks, and all the money spent on your legal 
career will be wasted, and all the money you are 
going to put into this absurd business will be 
wasted too. By the way, where is that money 
coming from?” 

“I was thinking of you, darling,” said her 
son. 

“Of me! Is the boy mad?” she inquired of the 
flowerbeds, the trees and the universe at large. 
“Do you seriously think that, feeling as I do 
about this offensive shop, I am going to help you 
to open it?” 

“Yes, darling,” said Jack. “And it won’t be 
quite so costly as you think,” he added, “because 
I’m not going into it alone. I’ve got a partner. 
Who do you think is joining me?” 

“I haven’t the faintest notion,” Mrs. Harford 
replied. “But I hope it’s an honest man or you’ll 


26 


ADVISORY BEN 


be robbed. You’re as much fitted to run an old 
book shop alone as I am to—to—well, these are 
the kind of sentences no one ought ever to begin. 
One used to say ‘to fly’ once, but everyone flies 
now, so there’s nothing in it. But you know 
what I mean. Who is this partner, anyhow?” 

“Patrick,” said Jack. 

“Patrick! Do you mean Mr. St. Quentin?” 

“Of course. He’s mad about it. And he’s got 
some capital too.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Harford, “if Mr. St. Quen¬ 
tin thinks it’s a good scheme, that’s another mat¬ 
ter. But only for himself. What is right for 
him, in his crippled condition, is one thing; what 
is right for you, is another. Let him run the 
shop alone, and you go on learning to be a dis¬ 
tinguished K.C., there’s a dear. Don’t be 
changeable, my boy.” 

“I’m not really changeable, mother,” said 
Jack. “This is my first departure. And it isn’t 
as if I need slave my way up to success in a pro¬ 
fession I don’t really care very much for. I’ve 
come to the conclusion that I’d far rather be poor 
in a book shop than rich by pumping up excite¬ 
ment and rage in the interests of clients you can’t 
bear the sight of and probably don’t believe in. 
And I’m fond of books, and, as you know, I 
adore old Pat and in a way I feel pledged to him 


ADVISORY BEN 


27 


too after all our times together in the War; and 
with his one leg what else could he do? I was 
with him when he lost it and I feel bound to 
help.” 

“I can’t agree,” said Mrs. Harford, “that for a 
one-legged man second-hand book selling is the 
only possible employment, but I’ll go so far as to 
say that I like you to feel like that about him. 
All the same, I don’t see why he should need a 
partner. An assistant, yes, but why my son as a 
partner? And also, can there be enough profit in 
a second-hand book shop to keep two young 
men?” 

“We shan’t roll, of course,” said Jack, “but we 
oughtn’t to starve, and there’s always the chance 
of picking up a first folio for a few shillings and 
selling it at its real value. So you will put up a 
little money, darling, won’t you? You wouldn’t 
like me to touch my capital, I know.” 

“No,” said his mother. “I should hate it. All 
I can say now is that if Mr. Tredegar approves 
I’ll see what I can do. And of course he must be 
consulted as to the premises you take, the lease, 
and all that kind of thing. You promise that?” 

“Well, darling,” said Jack, “I would promise 
it if I could. But I can’t, because, you see, we’ve 
burnt our boats. We took the place a fortnight 
ago.” 


28 


ADVISORY BEN 


“How naughty of you!” said his mother. 
“Then nothing I can say now is of any use?” 

“Nothing,” he replied tragically. “Too late! 
Too late!” 

“Where is this loathsome shop to be?” Mrs. 
Harford asked. 

“In Motcombe Street,” said Jack. 

“But that isn’t a popular part at all,” his 
mother objected. “Very few strangers pass along 
there.” 

“Pat says we don’t want them,” said Jack. 
“We shall send out catalogues, and gradually get 
to be known. Of course we don’t mind if some¬ 
one comes in by chance and buys the first folio; 
but there’ll be no fourpenny box or anything like 
that at the door. It’s a good address, and the 
rent is low.” 

“And you’ve actually taken it?” his mother 
asked. 

“Actually,” he replied. 

“You will break my heart yet,” said Mrs. 
Harford. 

“Never,” said her son, lifting her into the air. 

“Don’t be so absurd; let me down!” the little 
lady cried. 

“Not till you’ve withdrawn that abominable 
remark about breaking your heart.” 

“Very well then—but only under pressure.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


29 


“And not till you’ve kissed me like a loving 
and thoroughly approving mother.” 

“I can’t do that.” 

“Well, kiss me anyway,” said Jack, holding 
her still higher. 

And she did. Mothers (bless them) can be 
very weak. 


30 


ADVISORY BEN 


VI 

It was on the following Sunday that I found 
myself in Aubrey Walk, discussing Ben’s future 
with her, with Melanie Ames, and with two or 
three of the young men who were in the habit of 
dwelling within Melanie’s aura. In Guy’s ab¬ 
sence in Meerut she did not deny herself certain 
detached male followers. More and more do 
English girls seem to be acquiring similar 
treasure. 

The two girls made a pretty contrast: Ben so 
quick and alert, and Melanie so casual and ap¬ 
parently uninterested, although with an instant 
comment for every situation. Already, I ob¬ 
served, her tardiness had begun to draw out 
Ben’s practicality. In appearance they were a 
contrast too, for Ben was fresh-complexioned, 
with rich brown hair which had maintained its 
steady natural shade ever since I had known her, 
whereas Melanie was pale and had changed the 
colour of her tresses three times at least and was 
now meditating a return from dark to fair. 

Ben was not exactly clever or witty, but her 


31 


ADVISORY BEN 

brain was nimble enough and clear enough, and 
her laugh of such seductive clarity and readiness 
as to put men on their mettle. Women who 
make men talk better than they are accustomed 
to are always popular, even when they are plain; 
and Ben was by no means plain. Indeed, she 
had such pleasant looks as to cause constant sur¬ 
prise that she was still single and unattached; 
but only among those people who do not know 
how foolishly young men can choose their part¬ 
ners for life. Ben was probably too sane, too 
brightly normal. The feet of the young men of 
her acquaintance were either turned away from 
marriage altogether, or were dancing attendance 
upon creatures more capricious, more artificial, 
more suggestive even of decadence. Melanie, for 
example with her pallor and her exotic coiffure, 
was clearly more attractive to Tubby Toller and 
Eric Keene, who were plying her with cigarettes 
and other necessaries of life when I entered. 
Both these youths, who had been too young for 
the War, were now engaged in such walks of life 
as products of public schools and universities 
take to: Tubby having a clerkship in the Treas^ 
ury, and Eric having one eye on the Bar, wher¬ 
ever the other may have been. 

“Tell them about your scheme, Ben,” said 
Melanie, when we were all at our ease. 


32 


ADVISORY BEN 


“Well,” said Ben, “there seems to be a vacancy 
for a kind of agent who will do all kinds of things 
for those who are too lazy or too busy or too 
helpless to do them for themselves and would 
pay to be relieved. Finding a house or flat, for 
example. There are heaps of people who would 
cheerfully give ten pounds to have these found 
for them. There are people all over the country, 
and in Scotland and Ireland, who would like their 
shopping done for them, particularly when the 
Sales come on. There are heaps of English peo¬ 
ple abroad—on the Continent, in India, in the 
Colonies—who want things done for them in 
London and have no one to apply to and trust. 
There is a constant demand for servants of every 
kind, not only housemaids and nurses, but chauf¬ 
feurs and secretaries and private tutors. People 
want to know where they can have bridge lessons 
and golf lessons and billiard lessons. It’s all very 
vague in my mind at present, but I’m sure there’s 
something practical in it.” 

“It’s not vague to me at all,” said Tubby; “it’s 
concrete. I’ve been thinking like a black while 
you’ve been talking, and I believe I’ve got a title. 
You must be original and alluring: a signboard, 
jolly colours, nice assistants.” 

“I should call it ‘Ben Trovato,’ ” said Eric. 


33 


ADVISORY BEN 

“Oh, don’t!” Ben groaned. “No more puns on 
my unfortunate name, please.” 

“Or ‘Ben’s Balm for Harassed Housewives,’ ” 
Eric continued. 

“Or just a notice like this,” said Melanie: 

DOMESTIC DIFFICULTIES 
FORWARD SOLUTIONS WITHIN 

“Be serious,” said Tubby. “I’ve got a real title 
for you. What do you think of ‘The Beck and 
Call’?” 

“Very good,” I said. 

“I think you should have a signboard hanging 
out,” said Tubby, “Like an old inn, and on the 
sign, which would be very gay, something like 
this:— 

THE BECK AND CALL 
DOMESTIC PROBLEM BUREAU 

BRING YOUR NEEDS TO US 
FEES MODERATE 

“I don’t know about ‘moderate,’ ” said 
Melanie. “It’s what the most expensive hotels 
always say.” 

“Yes, and ‘Domestic Problems’?” said Eric. 
“Don’t they usually mean rows between husband 


34 ADVISORY BEN 

and wife? Admiralty, Probate and Divorce 
stuff?” 

“I suppose so,” said Tubby. “But it would be 
impossible to put up anything that could not be 
misunderstood by someone. In connection with 
‘Beck and Call’ I think ‘Domestic Problems’ 
might stand. And, after all, if a wife did come 
to complain of her husband there would be no 
great harm done; she would simply be told that 
that kind of business was not transacted and sent 
off to the nearest police court or solicitor.” 

“But you could charge her for it just the 
same,” said Eric. “After all, knowing who is 
the nearest or best divorce solicitor is very special 
knowledge and ought to be well paid for.” 

“Yes,” said Tubby, “I’ve lived in the same 
house for two years, but I’ll be hanged if I know 
where the nearest police station is, or the nearest 
fire station, or the nearest pawnbroker. Those 
are the valuable facts of life, and I am ignorant 
of all of them. I know where my own doctor 
lives, and my own dentist, but I haven’t a notion 
where there is a strange one handy. And of 
course dentists never work at night. The address 
of a good dentist who would answer a night call 
would be worth a tenner to anyone. You ought 
to specialize in that, Ben.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


35 


“I will,” said Ben. “You are being very use¬ 
ful to me. Go on.” 

“The best of everything,” said Eric, hastily 
cutting in, “is a good thing to know. It takes a 
lot of finding out oneself. I’ve got a haber¬ 
dashery chap, for instance, who is absolutely use¬ 
less with socks. His vests are good, his shirts, 
his collars; but his socks are disgraceful. Very 
dear, and no wear in them at all. ‘Advice as to 
the best shops for everything’ would be a great 
line for you.” 

“I saw a shop the other day,” Tubby said, 
“where there were Chinese birds’ nests in the 
window. For soup. I’ll give you the address, 
Ben. That will be something to start on.” 

“Yes,” said Melanie, “and I know the best 
place for rings and bracelets made of elephants’ 
hair. For luck, you know. You’d better make a 
note of that.” 

“And China tea,” said I. 

“And Waterford glass,” said Melanie. 

“And Japanese artichokes,” said Tubby. 
“They’re delicious and they’re practically weeds, 
but how many greengrocers have them ? Hardly 
any.” 

“And salad oil,” said Melanie. “The awful 
cart-grease most people give you!” 

“I’ll tell you another thing worth knowing in 


86 


ADVISORY BEN 


your business,” said Eric. “Places—seaside re¬ 
sorts—where the water isn’t hard. My old father 
had a horror of hard water and all our summer 
holidays w T ere regulated by that. But it was the 
most difficult thing to find out.” 

“I hope you’re writing all these things down,” 
said Ben. “I must have one of those big alpha¬ 
betical books. I’d no idea how clever you are— 
you’re well worth a guinea a box.” 

“That reminds me,” said Eric. “The best 
chemists. Where to get the best soap.” 

“And the best lavender water,” said I. 

“And the best cold-cure,” said Tubby. “Noth¬ 
ing so important as that.” 

“What price indigestion?” asked Melanie. 

“Yes, of course,” said Tubby. “I know of 
some ripping stuff.” 

“But you’re going much too far,” said Ben. 

“Never mind,” said Tubby, “you’ll find it’ll all 
help. You can’t know too much.” 

“There’s that wonderful place for jam in 
Paris,” said Melanie. “I forgot the name. It’s 
in the Rue de Seze: oh yes, Tandrade. You see 
them making it in the shop. Nothing like it. 
I’m sure that anyone who could act as an inter¬ 
mediary between English people and the best 
French shops would make a fortune.” 

“Or the other way round,” said Tubby. “I’ll 


ADVISORY BEN 


37 


bet you France is full of people who would like 
to get things from London but don’t know how. 
Think of the ajvful things they have to put up 
with now,” he went on. “Have you ever been in 
a small French chemist’s? No one but a peasant 
in a smock to look after you. And their shoe 
leather; I mean for men. And their umbrellas. 
I can see an International Shopping Bureau go¬ 
ing very strong.” 

“Please stop,” said Ben, in mock despair. 
“You’re too resourceful. And what do you 
think,” she asked, turning to me, “shall we call it 
‘The Beck and Call’?” 

“I think that’s admirable,” I said. “I wish I’d 
thought of it.” 


38 


ADVISORY BEN 


VII 

When Colonel Staveley, with his buxom Belle, 
returned from Cap d’Ail and found no daughter 
to receive him, he was bewildered and shocked. 

Still, as everything was comfortable and the 
servants were welcoming and kind, and even 
more because it is not so simple or desirable to 
lose one’s temper in the presence of second wives 
as first, the Colonel controlled himself; but when 
Ben called, he relaxed. 

“I can’t conceive why you aren’t satisfied to go 
on here,” he began. “Your mo—I mean Belle— 
would be delighted to have you. She likes you, I 
know. She’s said so, often. She said so again 
only last night. And you like her, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” said Ben. “I do. But I don’t think 
this is the place for me any longer. So long as 
you were alone I was glad to do what I could; 
but you’ve got Belle now. It’s her house. It 
wouldn’t be right—apart from anything else— 
for me to live here now. I can’t think why you 
don’t see that.” 

“She doesn’t understand the servants as you 


ADVISORY BEN 


39 


did,” said the Colonel. “She—she doesn’t under¬ 
stand me. Those sandwiches you used to cut me 
at eleven—no one gets me those any more. I 
mean, not as they ought to be: thin and soft and 
without crust.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Ben. 

“Sorry!” exclaimed the Colonel. “Sorry is as 
sorry does. If you really were sorry you’d come 
back. Where are you pigging it, may I ask?” 

“I’m sharing Melanie Ames’s flat in Aubrey 
Walk,” said Ben. “It comes far cheaper and 
there’s plenty of room. And as soon as I can” 
—here she produced the bombshell—“I’m going 
to open a business.” 

For an old warrior the Colonel took the blow 
badly. He had no words at all at first. “Busi¬ 
ness!” he then gasped; “what business?” 

To his growing exasperation Ben told him our 
plans. 

“Oh! he’s in it,” said her father, referring to 
my own modest financial share, and adding, if I 
know anything about him, “I never cared for the 
man, as you are probably aware.” 

He stamped up and down the room for a while 
and then began again. 

“I’m not narrow-minded, thank God!” he de¬ 
clared. “Whatever else I may be, I’m not nar¬ 
row-minded; but I’m bound to say I don’t think 


40 


ADVISORY BEN 


it’s quite fair to me to open an office of this sort. 
If you were taking up the secretaryship of a 
ladies’ golf club I shouldn’t mind. I’m all for 
women playing golf, so long as they have links of 
their own. Or a secretaryship to an M.P., say, 
as long as it wasn’t a damned Labour member. 
But an office with a brass plate and your name— 
my name—on it, no! I draw the line there.” 

“It won’t have our name,” said Ben. “It’s to 
be called ‘The Beck and Call.’ ” 

“Oh, is it?” he cried. “Is it? I like that! 
Colonel Staveley’s daughter advertising herself 
at anyone’s beck and call. A nice pill for an old 
soldier to swallow, a nice thing to explain away 
to one’s friends.” 

Ben was silent for a while. Then, “I think 
you’re taking it too seriously,” she said. “Many 
changes have come about since you were young. 
The world has given up a lot of its sillinesses, and 
one of them is the prejudice against people going 
into business. I am convinced that no girl of 
twenty-two ought to be just a drone.” 

“I can’t think why you never married,” said the 
Colonel, peevishly. 

“I suppose because it takes two to make a 
marriage,” said Ben. 

“You must have played your cards devilish 
badly,” her father retorted. “There’s Alicia, 


ADVISORY BEN 


41 


she’s married, even though her husband is dead. 
And Merrill’s married. And most of your 
cousins are married. I can’t understand what 
you’ve been doing.” 

“Some girls must be single,” said Ben. “Why, 
there are millions more women than men in this 
country alone. I read the figures only the other 
day.” 

“It is the duty of every woman of spirit,” said 
the Colonel, oracularly, “not to be one of them. 
And what,” he continued, “will you do when all 
the money’s gone?” 

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t succeed,” said 

Ben. 

“Succeed!” the Colonel snorted. 

“Well, some things succeed,” said Ben. 
“Everything doesn’t fail. Look at the people 
round you: they’re not all bankrupt.” 

“Very nearly,” said the Colonel. 

“They seem to have money for a good many 
frivolities and luxuries still,” said Ben. “Any¬ 
way, I mean to do my best to make it succeed. 
And I hope,” she added, “that if you’re in any 
difficulty here you’ll come to 'The Beck and Call.’ 
I must send Belle some cards when we’re ready.” 

“You needn’t trouble,” said the Colonel. “If 
you ever see Belle or myself on your premises or 
catch us recognizing this nonsense of yours, I’ll” 


42 


ADVISORY BEN 


—well, you know how that kind of man always 
finishes that kind of sentence—‘Til eat my hat.” 

“Don’t do that, father,” said Ben. “Promise 
me a new one instead.” 

“With the greatest pleasure in the world,” said 
the Colonel. 


ADVISORY BEN 


43 


VIII 

The Colonel was not alone in his hostility to 
Ben’s decision. Most of the family, indeed, ex¬ 
pressed disapproval, which is a word that was, I 
suspect, originally coined for no other purpose 
than to describe the attitude of people to any 
novel or independent action on the part of any of 
their relations, the younger ones in particular. 

Ben’s eldest sister, Alicia, who had settled 
with her two children, Paul and Timothy, at 
Hove, after her husband, Bertrand, was killed 
in the war, came hurrying up to add her voice to 
the attacking chorus; but she was not as whole¬ 
hearted as her father, because, never in favour of 
his second marriage, she was glad that Ben had 
left Hyde Park Gardens. That now, she agreed, 
was Belle’s domain, and beyond keeping an eye 
on certain pieces of furniture and a picture or so 
which she had marked down as some day to be her 
children’s, she intended to have no more interest 
in it. But it was not in the least her idea that Ben 
should live with Melanie Ames and start out on a 
career of her own. Alicia’s idea was that Ben 


44 


ADVISORY BEN 


should join her at Hove and help with the boys; 
and she put her case strongly. 

“Of course it’s what you ought to do,” she said. 
“They would be good for you and you would be 
good for them. They ought to see somebody else 
besides me, now that their poor father has passed 
over, and the more you have to do with children 
now, the better you will understand them when 
you have some of your own. For I suppose you 
intend to marry,” she added sharply. “You 
haven’t got all this absurd modern girl’s dislike of 
men as anything but tennis and dancing part¬ 
ners?” 

Ben said that at the moment she was thinking 
not of men but of her livelihood. 

“Nonsense,” said Alicia. “You know perfectly 
well you are doing it purely from selfishness. 
You are excited about going into business just as 
other girls would be excited about their coming 
out. It’s sheer self-indulgence. And you don’t 
need the money,” she went on; “you have grand¬ 
mamma’s two hundred, or whatever it is, and if 
you lived sensibly with me and put it into the 
common stock you would have no anxieties what¬ 
ever. I am sure Bertrand would have wished it. 
In fact, I happen to know that he does wish it. I 
asked him last night.” 

Ben opened her eyes. “What can you mean?” 


ADVISORY BEN 


45 


she asked, “by saying that you know he wishes it, 
and that you asked him last night—when he’s 
dead?” 

“I don’t think of Bertrand as dead,” said 
Alicia. “There is no death. He has merely passed 
over. I am in constant communication with him. 
I am very psychic; strangely so, considering 
what a matter-of-fact family we are. A throw¬ 
back, I suppose.” She closed her eyes. “Would 
you go against Bertrand’s express desire?” she 
asked earnestly. 

“I don’t know,” said Ben, “but in any case I 
should rather have it expressed to me direct.” 

“And so you shall if you will come to Hove,” 
Alicia replied eagerly. “There is a Circle there 
which you shall join. Not that I have to call in 
any medium myself; I am too psychic. And 
Bertrand and I are one, as we always have been. 
But it would be necessary for you.” 

“No,” said Ben. “I should be afraid. I don’t 
like that kind of thing. And it’s too late any¬ 
how.” 

“I think you’re horridly selfish,” said Alicia. 
“And speaking as your elder sister, almost old 
enough to be your mother, I want you to know 
that I don’t think you ought to be running a busi¬ 
ness at all. It’s not nice. The kind of women 
who run businesses are not nice; they’re hard and 


46 


ADVISORY BEN 


they’ve usually had a past. You will acquit me 
of narrow-mindedness, I am sure, but that’s how 
I feel. And I don’t believe it’s too late to get out 
of the agreement, if you’ve signed one. Consid¬ 
ering the way most house-agents behave, I think 
it’s one’s duty to get out of agreements now and 
then, just as a lesson to them.” 

“My dear Alicia!” Ben exclaimed. 

“Well, I do,” Alicia replied petulantly. “And 
as for poor Bertrand, he’ll be heartbroken. He 
had built all his hopes on your joining us at 
Hove.” 

“Is he in Hove too?” Ben asked. 

“Practically,” said Alicia. 

“No,” said Ben; “I can’t come; it’s impos¬ 
sible.” 

“And then there’s your health,” said Alicia. 
“You’ll lose your complexion poring over regis¬ 
ters and accounts in London. You’ll begin to 
look raddled; like all women in business. People 
will call you ‘capable,’ and that’s the end. No 
one wants a capable woman, out of her office.” 

Ben only laughed. 

“And Hove’s so invigorating,” Alicia re¬ 
sumed. “The Sea Wall! And haven’t you any 
interest in your nephews? You were fond of 
Bertrand, weren’t you? You always seemed to 


ADVISORY BEN 47 

be. Are you going to neglect his boys? Ben, 
dear, I thought better of you.” 

Alicia sighed and looked like one against whom 
the whole world was arrayed. 

“You’re making me feel very guilty,” Ben 
said. “But it’s no good. I can’t change now. 
And I believe—if this is selfishness—that a cer¬ 
tain amount of selfishness is right. I am sure 
that one ought to try to be independent; every¬ 
one ought. And why shouldn’t it be called ‘self- 
help’ or ‘self-reliance’ which are considered 
virtues, instead of ‘selfishness’? Anyway, I must 
go on with it now. If it fails, I may change my 
views altogether, or, of course, if anything hap¬ 
pened to you, and Paul and Timothy were left 
stranded, I might think it was my duty to come 
to the rescue. But not now.” 

Alicia made a noise as of one who would live 
for ever. 

“Besides,” Ben went on, “it would only mean 
for a short time probably. You’re not so settled 
as all that. Supposing you were to marry 
again.” 

“Ben!” exclaimed Alicia, “I’m shocked at 
you.” 

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” said Ben. “But 
people do marry again. Look—well, look at 
father.” 


48 


ADVISORY BEN 


“I decline to look at father,” said Alicia. “I 
think it’s horrid. At his age too.” 

“Well, then,” said Ben, “look at Belle. She’s 
not so very much older than you.” 

“I think that’s almost more horrid,” said 
Alicia. “And it’s very cruel of you, I think, to 
say such a thing to me, knowing as you do how 
devoted Bertrand and I always were and still 
are. And the boys, too! What man wants to 
marry a widow with two boys?” 

“I feel convinced that it has been done,” said 
Ben. “But I apologize. And I am very sorry, 
but I must repeat that I am going to be inde¬ 
pendent; I want to stand absolutely alone. I 
think it’s my duty.” 

“I’m tired of the way people use the word 
‘duty’ when they want to please themselves,” said 
Alicia. 

“My dear Alicia,” said Ben, “don’t let’s start 
all over again. You said that before. If you 
knew what efforts I make not to say things twice 
in one conversation!” 

Alicia compressed her lips with grim firmness. 
“Very well,” she said. “There’s no more to be 
done. But it will be terrible telling Bertrand.” 

“Surely,” Ben suggested, “he knows already?” 

“Ah, that I cannot say,” said Alicia. “All I 
know is, he counts on me for everything.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


49 


IX 

Ben’s second sister, Merrill, whose husband 
was a country vicar, also had something to say 
against Ben’s project, and said it; but with less 
acrimony than Alicia. Merrill had always been 
easygoing. 

“Of course it was quite right to leave father,” 
she agreed. “You couldn’t have gone on there, 
with that fat woman. And what we’re going to 
call her I have no notion. Nothing shall ever 
make me say ‘Mother.’ What do you call her?” 

“I call her Belle,” said Ben. “We arranged 
it.” 

“I couldn’t do that,” said Merrill. “I don’t be¬ 
lieve in the word as a name anyway. I think of 
it as something entirely different; something, be¬ 
tween you and me, of which I’m sick to death, as 
you would be if you lived in a vicarage a few 
inches from a church. Ugh!—bells! But the 
name’s a problem. ‘Mother’ is impossible; 
‘Stepmother’ is absurd; ‘Mrs. Staveley’ would be 
absurd too. The wisest thing is not to see her at 
all and then one needn’t call her anything. But 


50 


ADVISORY BEN 


that,” she continued, “is nothing. What I want 
to ask you to do is to come and live with us; and 
if you had a spark of decency you’d do it.” 

Ben made a movement of dissent. 

“And it wouldn’t be such a sacrifice either,” 
her sister went on, “for there’s lots of things to 
do. Egbert won’t have a car, it’s true, but we 
can get one in the village, only a bob a mile. 
There’s a golf links four miles off and there’s 
plenty of tennis and bridge. There are some 
quite decent young men; one, by the way, who’s 
rolling.” 

“But there are the bells!” said Ben. 

“Never mind about them,” Merrill urged. 
“One can get used to anything—except,” she 
added, “Egbert. Be a sport and think of your 
sister. I assure you, my dear, I shall go mad if 
I don’t have someone to talk to and be with. 
You wouldn’t have me in an asylum, would 
you?” 

“But my dear Merrill,” said Ben, “how can it 
be as bad as that? What is the matter with 
Egbert? You used to like him. I can’t under¬ 
stand why everyone seems to get so tired of their 
husbands or wives. It makes me glad I’m not 
married. You liked him once, tremendously.” 

“I don’t say I hate him now,” said Merrill, 
“but he’s become impossible. He spends his 


ADVISORY BEN 


51 


whole life between neglecting the parish and 
writing his book. It’s not living at all. And no 
one will read his book. Who wants books on the 
Hittites? I tell him he’d far better be paying 
some attention to the English in the village, but 
that makes him cross. And when he’s not writ¬ 
ing, he’s complaining of being overlooked and 
not being made a canon. He’s always perfectly 
sweet and polite to me, and I could slap him. 
Not that we quarrel: not a bit of it. Ours isn’t 
the kind of house you could call a ‘Bickerage’ for 
a moment. But we just stagnate. He doesn’t 
really need me and I’m bored by him. Oh, how 
bored! If only he would take one or two back¬ 
ward boys it would be a relief, a change, but he 
won’t. He says they would interfere with his 
work. 

“This isn’t,” she went on, “the kind of life that 
I married for. But then, what is it that one mar¬ 
ries for? I know what the Church service says, 
of course, only too well. But surely there should 
be some fun too? That is what we’re brought up 
to believe and expect; but I assure you, Ben, I’ve 
never been anything in Egbert’s life whatever. 
Not really. I’m merely in his house; I see that 
his meals are punctual and fit to eat; I see that 
he has clean surplices; I see that his study is 
dusted and the fire lit; and I listen to his tales of 


52 


ADVISORY BEN 


woe. And that’s the end of it. I’m just his wife. 
He wanted me badly enough, and he got me, and 
that was the end. It has never occurred to him 
that a wife could want to be anything more than 
the punctual inmate of a man’s house. I can’t 
even keep a dog, because dogs get on his nerves. 
But he likes you—you could make him a little 
more human, I believe, if anyone could. Do give 
up this ‘Beck and Call’ stuff and come and help 
me. I’m certain it’s your duty.” 

Ben shook her head. 

“But don’t you do anything in the parish?” 
she asked. “Don’t you visit?” 

“Do I not visit?” exclaimed Merrill. “Of 
course I do. I have to. It all falls on me. But 
is that what I was made for? Why, I’m only 
thirty-one. Is that any life for a woman of 
thirty-one? No, Ben dear, be a sport and come 
and stay with us and you and I will have some 
fun and you’ll keep me from thinking too much 
and regretting too much. Egbert won’t worry 
you a bit; he’ll hardly know you’re there.” 

“My poor Merrill,” said Ben, “I wish I could. 
But it’s too late. I’ve got into this business and 
I must stick to it.” 

“Very well, then,” said Merrill, “let me be your 
first client and get me a nice jolly curate, even if 
I have to pay for him myself.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


53 


X 

Uncle Paul, however, approved, and Uncle 
Paul was a valuable ally. Uncle Paul was Mrs. 
Staveley’s and Lady Collum’s brother: a man of 
about sixty who had lived with his parents as long 
as they lived and then had taken rooms in Bays- 
water with a housekeeper. Naturally shy and 
unambitious, and made more shy by an uncon¬ 
querable stammer, he had never gone into any 
business but remained home-keeping and re¬ 
tired, famous in the family for his mechanical 
skill. If a doll’s house were required, Uncle Paul 
made it. His jig-saw puzzles had been marvels 
of difficulty before the term jig-saw was in¬ 
vented. With his lathe and other tools he added 
little improvements to most of the pieces of 
mechanism that shops carelessly put forth. 

But his masterpieces were ships, possibly be¬ 
cause his father had been a shipowner and much 
of Paul’s odd time as a boy and youth had been 
spent in prowling about the vessels in harbour. 
The sea itself had no attraction for him; he was 
the worst of sailors; but by everything to do with 
ships he was fascinated. 


54 


ADVISORY BEN 


From making models for young friends and 
testing them, he had come to sailing them him¬ 
self, and was one of the most assiduous frequen¬ 
ters of the Round Pond, with the long wand of 
office proper to all Round Pond habitues who 
have Masters’ Certificates. 

That was his principal outdoor recreation. The 
only other motive that could take him from his 
abode was his love of music, instrumental rather 
than vocal, and the Queen’s Hall knew few 
figures more intimately than this tall spare man, 
with a slight stoop, a pointed grey beard and 
highly magnifying gold-rimmed spectacles. 

It has never been satisfactorily determined 
whether the saying about the darlings of the gods 
dying young means young in years or young in 
heart. But if it ought to run “Those whom the 
gods love are still young no matter when they 
die,” then Uncle Paul was one of the elect. 

“I think,” he said, after listening to the out¬ 
line of “The Beck and Call” project—and you 
must understand that whenever Uncle Paul 
spoke, it was with great difficulty, the words 
sometimes keeping distressingly out of reach for 
agonizing moments (during which, like so many 
sufferers from this impediment, he refused all as¬ 
sistance) or rushing out pellmell—“I think,” he 
said, “it’s a good scheme. Very amusing at any 


ADVISORY BEN 


55 


rate. You will meet such lots of odd people. 
And you will be doing something. I don’t 
mean,” he added hastily, “that you have not been 
busy up to now. We have all admired the way 
you kept house and devoted yourself to your 
father. But that was routine. Now you will be 
in the world and having adventures.” He sighed. 
“What fun!” he said. 

Ben amplified, and in the course of the story of 
the genesis of her plan mentioned Mrs. Lintot’s 
remark that she would willingly pay an annual 
subscription for these vicarious London services. 

“Yes,” said Uncle Paul, “that’s of the highest 
importance, a guarantee. Now what you have 
got to do is to write to all your friends explaining 
your scheme and offering to be at their service 
for a year at, say, three guineas each, and asking 
them to write to all their friends about it too, like 
one of these snowballs one reads of, or the Amer¬ 
ican officer’s prayer. Anybody living far out of 
London ought to find it well worth three guineas, 
and three guineas is nothing. Lots of them may 
drop off after the first year, but it would give 
you a start. If you get only sixty or seventy 
annual clients to begin with, that would ensure 
your rent. Some of these people would probably 
get their money’s worth over and over again, even 
if others didn’t. At the end of the year, you 


56 


ADVISORY BEN 


might have to raise the subscription, but in the 
first year you will be making your name and you 
can afford to be generous. I shall put down 
three guineas myself, but what for, I haven’t the 
vaguest notion at the moment; and if I get no re¬ 
turn I shan’t grumble—for the unusual reason 
that it will be my own fault.” 

“I should hate to take three guineas from you,” 
said Ben. “You couldn’t possibly make so much 
use of me as that, and I’d rather do it for noth¬ 
ing.” 

“Hush!” said Uncle Paul. “Don’t say such 
things. The dangerous words Tor nothing’ must 
disappear from your vocabulary the moment you 
go into business.” 

“How horrid!” said Ben. “But I defy you to 
think of anything you could want from me. 
When you’ve got Mrs. Crosbie eating her head 
off, how could you need ‘The Beck and Call’?” 

“We’ll see,” said Uncle Paul. “Here’s my 
cheque anyway. I want to be your first client.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


57 


XI 

In the choice of business premises Ben showed 
not a little sagacity. I know, for I was with her. 

She began by consulting a firm of house- 
agents, which, like so many of those necessary 
but unsatisfactory organizations, appeared to 
consist of twins—Messrs. Charger & Charger. 
What the evolution of a house-agent is, no one 
has ever discovered, but an addiction neither to 
industry nor to strict veracity seems to be an 
essential to their perfected state. All house- 
agents have youth and eloquence and make an 
attempt at social ease. The effrontery that ac¬ 
companies the sale of motor-cars is never quite 
theirs: they do not actually puff tobacco smoke 
at their customers while leaning against the wall 
with their hands in their pockets, but they prob¬ 
ably would like to. 

Whether we saw either of the principals— 
either Charger or Charger—we never knew; but 
the place was full of glib young men who em¬ 
ployed the first-person-singular in their conversa¬ 
tions, each of whom in turn might have been 


58 ADVISORYBEN 

Charger or Charger, but all of whom probably 
were not. 

It was by disregarding their suggestions that 
Ben gradually arrived at a decision. 

“I am thinking,” she said, “of opening an office 
where advice can be sought on all kinds of 
domestic problems, and I want it to be in a 
wealthy residential district but not in a main 
street.” 

“Not in Piccadilly?” the young man asked. 

“No, not in a main street,” said Ben. 

“I have a very desirable upper part in Lower 
Regent Street,” he said. 

“Not in a main street,” Ben replied. 

The young man turned over the pages of a 
register. 

“How would you like Long Acre?” he in¬ 
quired. 

“Would you call that a wealthy residential dis¬ 
trict?” Ben replied. 

“What about the Strand?” he asked. 

“Not in a main street,” said Ben. “Besides, 
surely it must be in a part where women shop? 
The Strand is mostly full of men and tourists, 
isn’t it? I know I personally have never been 
there except to a restaurant or a theatre.” 

“That’s true,” said the young man. “A shop- 


ADVISORY BEN 59 

ping quarter. I understand. Somewhere off 
Oxford Street, you mean.’’ 

“Well, what have you got there?” Ben asked. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t anything,” he said. “Or 
South Audley Street?” 

“Yes,” said Ben, “that’s much better.” 

He looked through his register again. 

“No,” he said, “there’s nothing there. But”— 
brightly—“what about the upper part of a ga¬ 
rage near the Imperial Institute? I can recom¬ 
mend that most highly.” 

It was then that we came out. 

Taking our fate into our own hands, we spent 
the afternoon in walking in likely places, and at 
last came upon an old book shop in Motcombe 
Street, which is near Knightsbridge and between 
the distinguished and far from poverty-stricken 
squares of Eaton and of Lowndes. At the side 
of the shop was a signboard in white and light 
green on which were the agreeable words;— 

THE 

BOOKLOVERS’ 

REST 

In the window were rows on rows of volumes, 
old and less old, some opened at the title page 
and others at delectable coloured plates. 

The shop was evidently new, judging by the 


60 


ADVISORY BEN 


paint; and from a window above it a notice 
emerged stating that the upper part was to let 
and was suitable for offices. 

As we approached, a small and intensely wag¬ 
gish black spaniel dashed out of the door with all 
the excitement that such dogs manifest when 
their masters are coming too, and a moment later 
a fresh-looking young man in a tweed suit, with¬ 
out a hat, sauntered from the shop, crossed the 
road and surveyed the premises with a pleased 
proprietary eye. After a brief space he called 
“Patrick!” and there came to the doorway an¬ 
other young man, who had a more studious air 
and, we noticed, limped. The first young man 
said nothing but slightly extending both hands, 
elevated his thumbs to a vertical position. 

“Good,” said the lame one, and then all three 
retired to the recesses of the shop. 

Meanwhile Ben’s mind was working very 
quickly. Motcombe Street, she remarked, was 
only a few yards from the two great Knights- 
bridge drapers, and Sloane Street with all its 
millinery and boots and dressmakers was close 
by. If two young men thought it a good enough 
spot to establish themselves as second-hand book 
sellers, might it not be equally or even more suit¬ 
able for our purposes? And especially so if she 
could induce a Knightsbridge or Sloane Street 


ADVISORY BEN 


61 


tradesman, or both, to allow her to put up a fin¬ 
ger-board. At any rate, the rooms must be 
looked at. 

In the course of the conversation that followed, 
Ben said that the only real drawback was that 
there was no private door. The upper part could 
be reached only through the shop. But neither 
Mr. Harford, the young man with the dog 
(whose name appeared to be “Sour’), nor Mr. 
St. Quentin, the young man with the limp, 
thought this a very serious objection. 

“If you don’t mind,” said Mr. Harford, “we 
shan’t. You will probably have more customers 
than we, and we shall try and bag some of them.” 

“Yes,” quoted Mr. St. Quentin, or Patrick, 
“ ‘and those that came to scoff remained to pray.’ 
In other words, if they can’t get a governess or a 
chauffeur from you, they may stop on the way 
down to buy a cookery book from us.” 

“That’s too one-sided,” said Ben. “Equally 
why shouldn’t people who can’t find anything 
they want on your shelves, be sent upstairs to see 
what I can do for them?” 

“Of course,” said Mr. Harford. “Only yes¬ 
terday, for example, we had an old boy from 
America. Americans, it seems, want either first 
editions of Conrad and Masefield, or something 
to do with Dr. Johnson. This was a Johnsonian, 


62 


ADVISORY BEN 


but he was also in need of a service flat. Now if 
you had been here I should have pushed him up 
and you would have fleeced him.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. St. Quentin, “and then there 
was that rummy old bird this morning. She 
wanted a novel. Anything to pass the time, she 
said. But when she came to look round, there 
was nothing that she hadn’t read or that she 
wanted to read. Dickens was too vulgar and 
Thackeray was too cynical. Meredith was too 
difficult and Hardy too sad. Trollope was too 
trivial and George Eliot too bracing. Wells was 
too clever and Bennett to detailed. Galsworthy 
was too long and Kipling too short. And so on. 
She ended by offering me a fiver for Jack’s 
spaniel, which she called a ‘doggy.’ After I had 
repulsed the offer she asked me if I could tell her 
the best play that had a matinee to-day. The 
world’s full of these drifters. Now if you had 
been here, I should have steered her to you.” 

“To waste my time?” Ben asked. 

“Not a bit of it. She was rolling in money; 
all she needed was a directing mind, such as I am 
sure yours is. What she wanted was to get 
through the day, and you would have helped her, 
and business would result. As a matter of fact, 
she did buy something; she bought ‘Tom Brown’s 
School Days,’ for the curious reason, into which I 


ADVISORY BEN 


68 


was far too wily to enquire further, that her dear 
father was at Winchester.” 

“One little point, Miss Staveley,” said Mr. 
Harford. “You are setting up an advice bureau. 
Won’t you give us your opinion on our sign¬ 
board: do you think it reads all right?” 

“It seems to me most alluring,” said Ben; “un¬ 
less possibly the word ‘Rest’ might lead people to 
stay too long.” 

“Well,” said Mr. St. Quentin, “as a matter of 
fact we had a tussle over that and Jack won. I 
was for just ‘Bookbuyers’ Corner.’ ” 

“Very pretty,” said Ben. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Harford, “but as I very prop¬ 
erly and acutely pointed out, this isn’t a corner.” 

“Still—” Ben began. 

“No,” said Jack, “a corner’s a corner.” 

“Very well,” said his partner, “I give in; but 
what do you think he wanted on the sign as we 
now more or less have it? You won’t credit it, 
Miss Staveley. Catch hold of something while I 
tell you.” 

“Ah, shut up,” said Jack. 

“He wanted ‘Ye’ instead of ‘The.’ ” 

“No!” said Ben, in horror. 

“He did,” said Patrick: “he actually and in¬ 
fernally did. Like a tea shop. He’s not alto¬ 
gether a bad-looking man; he would have taken 


64 


ADVISORY BEN 


quite a decent degree but for the War; he has 
played cricket for his county; he induced me to 
become his partner; and yet he wanted ‘Ye’ in¬ 
stead of ‘The.’ ” 

“Can this be true?” Ben asked. 

“Well, I stick to it,” said Jack. “We are out 
to make a living and I know what people are. 
You might lose a few highbrows by saying ‘Ye’ 
but you’d get a bigger following generally. Still, 
Patrick here wouldn’t give way. Well,” he made 
an exaggerated gesture of fatalism, “we know 
what the reason will be if we’re bankrupt, don’t 
we, old Soul?” and he patted the waggish spaniel. 

“And,” said the lame one, “I haven’t told you 
the worst. He came down one day with a design 
lettered by one of his architect friends, 

‘YE OLD BOOKE SHOPPE’ 

in which ‘shop’ had two P’s and an E . I haven’t 

fully recovered yet-” 

“It would have meant great business,” said 
Jack, defiantly. “There’s a fascination about 
that double P and that final E that lots of people 
find irresistible. No matter, the die is cast. By 
the way,” he added to Ben, “I suppose you’re 
calling yourself something?” 

“I was thinking of ‘The Beck and Call,’ ” said 
Ben. “I wanted a signboard rather like yours.” 



ADVISORY BEN 


65 


“Make it ‘Ye,’ ” said Mr. Harford, “and you’ll 
be a millionaire.” 

“No,” said Ben. “I couldn’t face my friends. 
It’s bad enough as it is.” 

“And you’ll take our upper part?” Mr. St. 
Quentin asked. 

“I can’t say at the moment,” said Ben. “I 
must consider. But if I don’t it will probably 
only be because I don’t think either of you is 
serious enough to be my landlord.” 

But after the lawyers had done their worst 
with it, Ben signed an agreement. 


66 


ADVISORY BEN 


XII 

In assembling her staff Ben experienced a cer¬ 
tain amount of luck in stumbling upon Miss 
Peterson. 

Miss Peterson was one of those plain, capable 
but not originative women whose destiny it is to 
work loyally for others. And Ben was just the 
kind of other for whom they work with the most 
zeal and fidelity. From Miss Peterson’s position 
as keeper of the outer office and the door, she 
came to be known as Jan, which was short for 
janitress, and but for her “The Beck and Call” 
would probably not have lasted a month. With 
her untiring devotion to buttress it, it turned the 
corner. 

Jan arrived early and left late, and, what is 
more, refused to go out for lunch, but ate it 
furtively at her desk. Whether men eat too much 
lunch or women too little is a question that has 
never been settled; and as they are totally differ¬ 
ent creatures there is probably no need for any 
comparisons. Suffice it to say that Jan could not 
be induced to improve her scanty and hasty re- 


ADVISORY BEN 


67 


past, and seemed to be fairly healthy on it. A 
certain element of self-sacrifice or even mortifica¬ 
tion was necessary to her happiness; she was a 
mixture of watchdog and nun. If ever she per¬ 
mitted herself a luxury or accepted an invitation 
to a party of pleasure, she did it as though per¬ 
forming a penance. Such was her own humility 
and her innate conviction that this is a vale of 
tears, and ought to be, that every happiness or 
delight was a cause of suspicion and surprise. 
Praise-God-Barebones and his companions 
planted the English soil deeper than they knew. 

The only other member of the staff, at first, 
was a precocious London boy, certainly no Puri¬ 
tan, who was known by his own wish as Dolly. 
Plis real name was Arthur, which his friends, all 
as Cockney as himself, soon converted to Arfur, 
not only because that was their general tendency 
but because his surname Crowne set up an addi¬ 
tional allurement to do so. Arfur Crowne in 
course of time was reduced, on the lines often fol¬ 
lowed in the evolution of nicknames, to ’arf a 
dollar, and from this it had been an easy grada¬ 
tion to Dolly. 

Dolly’s age was sixteen, and he was small for 
it. He was also old for it, in so far as dress and 
knowledge of the world, or at any rate of Lon¬ 
don, were concerned. He always wore a bowler 


68 


ADVISORY BEN 


hat and carried a cane, and in his possession, on 
view but never known to be worn, was a pair of 
smart tan gloves. In addition to an exhaustive 
acquaintance with London’s houses of variety, 
even in the outlying districts, football heroes, 
cricket heroes, cinema stars and probably winners 
on the flat, Dolly could give you in a moment the 
number of the bus you needed for any route. 

Where he got the money to visit so many 
places of entertainment, no one at first knew; for 
his wages could not well be large and there was 
no reason to suspect him of dishonesty. But he 
was so regularly in funds as to lead to the sus¬ 
picion that he had private means and was work¬ 
ing at “The Beck and Call” for a wager. So 
Tubby Toller maintained. And, as he said, it 
would be very dull to find out where the money 
came from, for one of the compensations in this 
dreary life of ours is the opportunity we get for 
wondering how other people can afford it. 

But later the secret came out, for Mr. Harford 
gave it away. Mr. Harford’s range of interests 
on the pleasant planet on which he found himself 
was, I ought to say, sufficiently wide to include 
the too often pathetic efforts to come in first on 
the part of those untrustworthy but beautiful 
animals with noble heads, glossy coats, and four 
slender legs on which most English men, and 


ADVISORY BEN 


69 


many English women, “have something” every 
day. It was Dolly’s special privilege to meet in 
his lunch hour mysterious acquaintances with spe¬ 
cial information about the “three-thirty,” and 
this information Mr. Harford was delighted to 
receive. Now and then, of course, the horse 
“went down,” but in the main the two confeder¬ 
ates did very well. 

Dolly’s post was by the telephone in the outer 
office, which, on occasions, could be connected 
with another instrument on Ben’s desk; but his 
dominating desire and ambition was, by his own 
knowledge and discretion, to render any such 
connexion unnecessary. So far from sharing 
Jan’s willingness to lunch in, Dolly was off, with 
his gloves and cane, immediately the clock struck 
one—to the Ritz or Savoy, according to Jack 
Harford. He was never late in returning, but 
sometimes stood on the step finishing a cigarette 
until the hands pointed to two. 

Mr. Harford and Dolly may have been almost 
on an equality, but it was one of the jokes at 
“The Booklovers’ Rest” that Dolly was too aris¬ 
tocratic to have any friendly relations with the 
boy—Ernie Bones—who opened and shut that 
abode of culture, and carried to the post such 
parcels as were dispatched, and once a month 
stuck stamps on myriad catalogues. But there 


70 


ADVISORY BEN 


are grades, right through the social scale, and 
Dolly stood on a plane far above Ernie’s. 

Ernie had never worn or carried gloves in his 
life. They would have looked as strange on him 
as a monocle in the eye of a London roadmender. 


ADVISORY BEN 


71 


XIII 

Aunt Agatha had of course to be told. Aunt 
Agatha was the widow of Sir Davenport Collum 
and Ben’s mother’s sister. Her opinion on any 
subjects whatever doesn’t really matter, but Ben 
would not have been happy to have left her in 
ignorance. 

“You mustn’t think me narrow-minded,” Aunt 
Agatha said, “because I’m not. Whatever else I 
may be, I’m not narrow-minded. But I really 
do think you might have chosen something better 
to do than to be a maid-of-all-work or a Jack-of- 
all-trades at the command of anyone with the 
money to pay your fee. You—you demean your¬ 
self. We should have dignity.” 

“Yes, aunt,” said Ben, “but one must maintain 
oneself first. There is no dignity without inde¬ 
pendence.” 

“But surely—don’t you remember Landseer’s 
picture?” inquired Lady Collum. 

“No, aunt. That was ‘Dignity and Im¬ 
pudence,’ ” Ben replied. 

“Yes, so it was. I had forgotten. And, after 


72 


ADVISORY BEN 


all, the words are very much alike. I can see it 
now. We had an engraving in the hall at home. 
Two dogs. Well, dear, as you were saying?” 

“I was saying, aunt,” Ben resumed, “that dig¬ 
nity without independence is only a shadow. 
What I want is to make my own living and ‘The 
Beck and Call’ seems to be a way. At any rate, 
it is worth trying.” 

“A horrid phrase,” said Lady Collum. “ ‘Beck 
and Call.’ Why, it suggests dependence and 
nothing else. Servility even. You belong to 
every one but yourself; you will be London’s 
errand girl.” 

“But if I don’t mind that, what then?” Ben 
asked. “And besides, I shall reserve the right to 
select my jobs.” 

“Beggars,” said Aunt Agatha, “cannot be 
choosers. There’s a proverb to that effect and I 
am a great believer in proverbs. An apple a day 
—ah! how true!” 

“Yes, aunt, but how miserable you would be if 
anything kept your own darling doctor away! 
And I believe it’s really an onion, as a matter of 
fact.” 

“Onions undoubtedly are very healthy,” said 
Lady Collum. “But what were we saying? Oh, 
yes. This office of yours. ‘The To and Fro.’ 
Where is it to be?” 


ADVISORY BEN 


73 


“ ‘The Beck and Call,’ aunt,” Ben corrected. 
“I have taken two rooms over an old book-shop in 
Motcombe Street.” 

“Taken them!” exclaimed Lady Collum, in 
horror. “I had no idea it had gone so far as 
that. What is the use of my giving you any ad¬ 
vice if the deed is done? It’s like locking the 
garage door after the car has been stolen.” 

“But I don’t think I was asking you to advise 
me,” said Ben. “I was merely telling you about 
it, because I thought you would like to know, 
and in case you knew of anyone who might want 
to make use of me.” 

“Oh dear! Oh dear!” exclaimed Lady Collum. 
“To think that it’s all settled! You’re plighted 
to it now.” 

“Yes, aunt,” said Ben. “The die is cast. 
There is no looking back. We begin next Mon¬ 
day.” 

“Plighted!” murmured Lady Collum, dream¬ 
ily. “What a beautiful word it might be! Can 
be. Why, my dear, don’t you marry some nice 
man instead of opening offices?” 

“Well, aunt, for one reason, no one that I 
cared for sufficiently has asked me,” said Ben 
smiling. 

“Then you have had a proposal or two?” said 
Lady Collum, eagerly. “I’m glad.” 


74 


ADVISORY BEN 


“Not very serious ones,” Ben told her. “Only 
from Tommy Clinton.” 

“Oh, him!” said Aunt Agatha. “And yet 
you’re very pretty,” she went on. “What’s the 
matter with the other young men? Let’s see, 
how old are you ?” 

“Twenty-two,” said Ben. 

“That’s a little late for the young ones,” said 
Lady Collum, “or much too early. Hasn’t any 
nice older man asked you?” 

“No, aunt,” said Ben, “and I don’t know that 
I want one either. Marriage isn’t everything. I 
can imagine an amusing business being far more 
entertaining than a husband. But surely you 
see,” she went on more seriously, “that now that 
father’s married again I must be independent. 
I can’t possibly go on living at home.” 

“Ah, yes,” said Lady Collum. “Of course. 
Poor child, yes. The cruel and ugly stepmother, 
my heart bleeds for you.’ , 

“But dear Aunt Agatha, she isn’t cruel, and 
she isn’t ugly,” said Ben. “And I like her.” 

“That’s your sweet nature,” Lady Collum re¬ 
plied, “or her artfulness. And what about poor 
little Toby?” she resumed. “His home closed to 
him. I can’t think what your father was about. 
Surely at sixty-three he might have continued to 
face life alone and then everything would be 


ADVISORY BEN 


75 


happy still, and poor little Toby not at the mercy 
of this heartless woman and you not driven out 
into the world to start ‘The Hide and Seek.’ ” 

“ ‘Beck and Call,’ aunt,” Ben corrected. “And 
I haven’t been driven out; I was glad to go.” 

“So you say,” said Lady Collum. “But it’s 
your kind heart. Anyway, it’s that motherless 
child I’m thinking most about—poor Toby.” 

“But, aunt, dear,” said Ben, “Toby is hardly 
ever at home. He’s at Oxford until the vaca¬ 
tion, and then he stays with friends. And he’s 
six feet tall. It’s far too long since you saw him. 
I assure you he’s in no need of such sympathy.” 

“Poor child, poor child!” Lady Collum mur¬ 
mured. “It is dreadful when the cuckoo dis¬ 
places the young meadow-pipits. I saw it on a 
film. Dreadful! My poor little Toby!” 

“Well,” said Ben, rising to go, and abandon¬ 
ing the struggle with preconceived ideas (always 
a stubborn one), “you’ll send to me if you want 
any shopping done while you’re down in the 
country, won’t you?” 

“Of course I will,” said Aunt Agatha. “I’ll 
do all I can for you. Let’s see, what is the place 
called—‘Mind the Step’?” 

“ ‘Beck and Call,’ aunt,” said Ben. 

“Of course. How funny I should have said 
‘Mind the Step.’ And yet how natural!” she 


76 


ADVISORY BEN 


added, sighing deeply, “for I am always thinking 
about her. The step! What a tragedy for all of 
you! How could your father have done it! 
Well, you will mind her, won’t you ? They’re all 
hard and all cunning. I know. I’ve read about 
them. And deceitful. And they are always sav¬ 
ing and stealing, and stealing and saving, for 
their own children.” 

“But, dear aunt, you are so wrong about this,” 
said Ben. “Belle is the kindest thing. And she 
hasn’t got any children of her own.” 

“So she says,” was Lady Collum’s last dark 
utterance. 


ADVISORY BEN 


77 


XIV 

Whether or no Ben’s landlords made a special 
point of being on the premises at the hour of her 
arrival I can’t say, but certain it is that they were 
always there to wish her good morning, and an 
element of rivalry as to which would wish it first 
was not absent. It is also certain that they 
esteemed highly the privilege of having such an 
agreeable tenant. 

Every one has a favorite snatch of song, which 
can be sung unconsciously and bears no relation 
whatever to the mental status of the singer. This 
was Jack’s, droned to an Irish melody:— 

Good morning, O’Reilly, 

You are looking well. 

Are you the O’Reilly 
Who keeps this hotel? 

Are you the O’Reilly 

They speak of so highly? 

Good morning, O’Reilly, 

You are looking well. 


At quiet intervals all day this ditty reached 
Ben’s ears from the ground floor, until it be¬ 
came the motif of her employment, and she 


78 


ADVISORY BEN 


caught herself at all kinds of odd moments mur¬ 
muring it too. In fact, “Good morning, O’Reilly, 
you are looking well,” was the password between 
Mr. Harford and herself. Mr. St. Quentin was 
less frivolous: his humour was of the sardonic 
variety; but he too had snatches of song, which 
also passed into Ben’s repertory, chief of which 
was that sweet but mournful Scottish lullaby:— 

My Bonnie lies over the ocean. 

My Bonnie lies over the sea, 

My Bonnie lies over the ocean. 

Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me. 

As book sellers the two friends seemed to Ben 
to lack method and even knowledge, but she hesi¬ 
tated to judge them because she knew so little 
herself, and she could not but be conscious that 
her own business was an unprofessional affair. 
In fact, they were all amateurs. 

Her suspicions as to her neighbours were first 
aroused by a visit from Mr. Harford one morn¬ 
ing. He was carrying a volume, and his nor¬ 
mally careless countenance registered perplex¬ 
ity if not despair. 

“Please help me, Miss Staveley,” he said. 
“Patrick’s out and I’ve no notion what this book 
is worth. It isn’t marked. There’s a blighter 
after it downstairs, and he looks as if he might be 


ADVISORY BEN 79 

a dealer himself, in which case it’s probably val¬ 
uable.” 

“It’s no use asking me,” said Ben. “You 
might as well ask your dog.” 

“But you’re so clever,” said Mr. Harford. 
“Tell me how it strikes you as a stranger. Hold 
it in your hand.” 

“No,” said Ben. “I shan’t even guess. Why 
don’t you tell him it was on the shelves by mis¬ 
take and isn’t for sale?” 

Mr. Harford looked at her with admiration. 

“By Jingo!” he said, “that’s brilliant! 

You are the O’Reilly 

They speak of so highly, 7 

and I don’t wonder.” 

On another occasion Mr. St. Quentin was 
heard laboriously ascending the stairs, impeded 
by his poor wooden leg. He had begun with a 
wonderful artificial limb, fitted with springs and 
other contrivances, but, like so many other muti¬ 
lated men, had given that up for a simple stump. 

“Look here, Miss Staveley,” he said, “I’m in 
a deuce of a fix. There’s a poor devil downstairs 
who’s brought in a bundle of books worth ten 
pounds, and he asks if I’ll give ten .shillings for 
them. What am I to do?” 


80 


ADVISORY BEN 


“Behave like a gentleman,” said Ben. “I 
should say, behave like yourself.” 

“Yes,” said Patrick, “I want to. But I’m a 
book seller as well. I hope I’m not the sort of 
man to take advantage of ignorance, especially 
when it’s mixed up with destitution; but, after 
all, business is business and one can’t be buyer 
and seller too.” 

“I think that’s rubbish,” said Ben. “Of course 
you can. Every dealer is, but that’s always the 
excuse. It makes me blush.” 

Patrick looked at her as though in the hope 
that he might miss none of the heightened colour 
when it came. 

“All the same,” he said, “the other day when I 
wasn’t in, Jack gave a fellow a fiver for a book 
which was only worth sixpence, owing to some 
missing pages which he didn’t detect.” 

“I don’t see that that has anything to do with 
the present matter,” said Ben. “Surely each 
transaction is separate.” 

“Yes,” said Patrick, resignedly. “You’re 
right. I’m a swine. How I hate business! 
None the less,” he went on, “this business is only 
half mine; half is Jack’s. I’ve got to do the best 
I can for both of us. Of course, I shan’t give 
only a measly ten bob; but the point is, how much 
more ought I to give?” 


ADVISORY BEN 81 

“What could you get for the books?” Ben 
asked. 

“They ought to fetch fifteen pounds,” said 
Patrick. 

“How soon can you sell them?” Ben asked. 

“One never knows,” said Patrick. “It might 
be to-morrow, it might be next year.” 

“That’s rather important,” said Ben, auto¬ 
matically using words that she didn’t know she 
possessed; “because it might mean locking up 
capital. I think you ought to give him some¬ 
thing between their value to you if you could sell 
at once and their value if you have to keep them 
in stock for a year. Say seven pounds ten.” 

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Patrick. “You’re 
the Queen of Sheba.” And he plodded down 
again. 

“I don’t pretend to be able to advise you, Miss 
Staveley,” said Patrick that evening. “I’m not 
clever enough. But whenever you’re in any dif¬ 
ficulty, come into the shop and we’ll try the 
‘Sortes Virgilianse.’ It can be very comforting, 
and it always succeeds.” 

“Sortes Virgi-” Ben asked. “I suppose 

that’s Latin, and I don’t know any. I’ve had a 
rotten education.” 

“Oh, no,” said Patrick, “I don’t suppose you 
have. I expect you know lots of things that good 



82 


ADVISORY BEN 


classical scholars are utterly ignorant of. You 
can read and play music at sight, I’m sure?” 

Ben admitted it. 

“I knew you could. I call that the most 
miraculous thing in the world—putting one’s 
fingers down on the notes accurately without any 
practice whatever. I’m sure Porson couldn’t do 
that, even if he did drink ink. Jack can do it too, 
confound him! It’s the one accomplishment I 
have always longed for, and I could never even 
whistle. But the ‘Sortes Virgilianae’—that was 
a game of chance and an appeal for guidance— 
every copy of Virgil an oracle, you know. It was 
like this. You were in a hole. Very well, you 
opened your Virgil at random and you took the 
first words that caught your eye as an inspired 
message. But nowadays people don’t confine 
themselves to Virgil: they take any book. Let’s 
try it. What is your perplexity at the moment?” 

“Well,” said Ben, “I suppose it would have 
something to do with getting clients, being able 
to be of any use to them when I did get them, and 
being able to pay you your rent.” 

“We’ll try,” said Patrick, taking a book at 
random from the shelf behind him, without turn¬ 
ing round, and opening it. He looked at the 
page and laughed. “There you are,” he said, 
pointing to the passage. 


ADVISORY BEN 


83 


The book was “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khay¬ 
yam” and the page was that on which was the 
quatrain containing the line:— 

So take the cash and let the credit go. 

“But there isn’t any cash to take,” said Ben. 
“No,” said Patrick, “but how does it go on? 

Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum. 

That is the answer of the oracle. In other words, 
don’t worry, take long views and if anyone has 
to suffer, let it be us and not you.” 

“But what is the drum?” she asked. 

“The drum is Jack and me,” said Patrick. 
“Your horrible, avaricious landlords.” 


84 


ADVISORY BEN 


XV 

“Someone to see you, Miss Staveley,” said 
Jan, with a flustered face, suddenly opening 
Ben’s door. “I’m sorry,” she added quickly and 
in a lower tone, “but I couldn’t do anything else.” 

“This way, sir,” she went on, to someone in 
the outer office, behind her, and in a moment who 
should be in the room but Colonel Staveley. 

“Father!” exclaimed Ben. 

“Well, why not?” replied the Colonel, but he 
looked anything but at ease. “Mayn’t a father 
visit his daughter?” 

“Of course, father, and I’m very pleased to 
see you. But it’s so unexpected. I hope noth¬ 
ing’s wrong. Please go on smoking.” 

“Thank you,” said the Colonel, who had been 
careful not to throw his cigar away, although he 
had been holding it in such a manner as to sug¬ 
gest that he had done with it, but absent-mind-, 
edly had forgotten to drop it. He put it back to 
his lips with a sigh of relief, sat down and, with 
a searching eye, looked round at the files of 
letters and the folios and other signs of business. 


ADVISORY BEN 


85 


“How are you doing?” he asked. 

“Not so well,” said Ben, “and not so badly. 
We are making both ends meet so far. But it’s 
very hard work. There’s so much to do, seeing 
people all day, that I never have an evening free. 
It’s then that the real task begins—writing let¬ 
ters, making up the books and all the rest of it. 
Still I like it more than not, and it’s interesting 
too. One never knows what the next minute may 
bring. Always something unexpected. You, 
for example.” 

“I’m sorry,” said her father, bluntly. “I was* 
hoping you might be tired of it and be willing to 
come back.” 

“Please don’t think of that,” said Ben. “I 
shouldn’t do that, whatever happened. There 
are lots of other things to do if this fails or gets 
too difficult. But it won’t.” 

“All right,” said the Colonel. “Then perhaps 
you’ll look on me not as a father but as a client. 
Do you say client or customer?” 

“Whichever you like,” said Ben. 

“Client, then,” replied the Colonel. “What I 
want is a cook. Not an ordinary cook, but a 
damned good cook. You know. A cook who 
sees that beef is underdone and mutton well done. 
A cook who sends any meat but the very best back 
to the butcher. A cook who doesn’t stuff apple 


86 


ADVISORY BEN 


tarts with cloves and slices of lemon. A cook 
who keeps time. Belle—Belle is fine, she’s splen¬ 
did, but she doesn’t understand.” 

Ben laughed. “I wonder how bad your cook 
is,” she said. “You know, father, you’re not the 
easiest creature to cater for. And—and does 
Belle know you’re here?” 

“Yes,” said the Colonel, “I told her.” 

“All right,” said Ben. “I’ll do what I can. 
But, remember, you’ll have to pay. Every¬ 
thing’s dearer than it used to be. What does 
the present cook get?” 

“I think it’s fifty,” said her father. 

“Well, you’ll have to go higher than that, for 
a good one. Very likely to eighty.” 

The Colonel groaned. “If I must, I must,” 
he said. “Life isn’t worth living as it is.” 

“I’ll send one along,” said Ben. 

“You’re a good girl,” said the Colonel. “I’m 
proud of you.” 

“Wait just a moment, father,” said Ben, as he 
rose to go. “You haven’t given me the address 
of a milliner yet.” 

“A milliner? What milliner?” the Colonel in¬ 
quired. 

“Where I am to get a hat,” said Ben. 

“You are talking in riddles,” said the Colonel. 
“I know nothing of any hat. With a business 


ADVISORY BEN 87 

blooming like this I should say you could get your 
hats wherever you wished. In Paris even.” 

“I thought perhaps you had a special shop in 
mind,” said Ben. 

“I haven’t an idea what you’re referring to,” 
said her father. 

“Don’t you remember?” Ben replied. “You 
said that if ever you entered my office you would 
give me a hat.” 

“Did I? I had forgotten. Of course if I 
said so, it shall be done. I’ll ask Belle about a 
shop and let you know. What an infernal mem¬ 
ory you have!” 

Ben was as good as her word, and a new cook; 
arrived at Hyde Park Gardens and gave satis¬ 
faction. 

It is sometimes amusing to watch disapproval 
dissolving into esteem, mortification being trans¬ 
formed to pride. Not long after the new kitchen 
regime was in full swing the Staveleys gave a 
dinner party, at which the Colonel had on his 
right hand old Lady Philligree (widow of the 
famous magnate who had the big place at More- 
ton-in-the-Marsh). Lady Philligree is known 
to like her food as much as most people, and, in 
default of anything else to say to her host, or pos¬ 
sibly because the topic came nearest her heart. 


88 


ADVISORY BEN 


she commented with intense appreciation on the 
entree they were consuming. 

“I’m glad you like it,” said the Colonel. “The 
fact is, we have a new cook and she’s a treasure. 
It doesn’t do to extol one’s own family, but I 
don’t think I am breaking any social law very 
seriously when I say that I got her through my 
daughter. Ben, you know. Well, Ben, like so 
many of these headstrong, foolhardy girls to-day 
—since the War you know—insisted on breaking 
away from home and starting a domestic agency. 
‘The Beck and Call’ she calls it. In Motcombe 
Street; quite close to Knightsbridge. Well, al¬ 
though it is not the best form for fathers to 
boast, I must say she’s wonderful. No sooner 
did I ask her for a cook than she got me this one. 
She ought to make a fortune, she’s so capable. 
Clearheaded, cool, with a charming manner, 
though again I say it as shouldn’t. ‘The Beck 
and Call’ she calls it. In Motcombe Street, close 
to Knightsbridge. Over a book shop.” 

And when, during the latter part of the feast, 
after half-time, Mrs. Carruthers, on his left, paid 
a compliment to the savoury (an entente cordiale 
of chicken’s liver and mushroom) the Colonel 
made practically the same reply to her. 

When we are deploring the inconsistency of 
human nature and the speed with which friend 


ADVISORY BEN 


89 


can become foe, let us not forget that, under 
other circumstances, the transition from adver¬ 
sary to advertising agent can be equally swift 
and complete. 


90 


ADVISORY BEN 


XVI 

Ben brought me occasional reports of her 
progress and whatever other news there might 
be; and I looked forward to these visits. 

“We’ve been having the oddest applications,” 
she said. “You have no idea how helpless people 
can be. They want advice on everything.” 

“The astonishing thing,” I replied, “is that 
you can give it on such a variety of subjects.” 

“I don’t know that I can,” she said, “but I 
try to. And if one is fairly emphatic, it seems 
to satisfy them. I suppose decisiveness is very 
comforting. I see them positively adding an 
inch or two to their stature when I just say ‘Yes’ 
or ‘No,’ without any qualifications to dilute those 
excellent words. It’s extraordinary how few 
people seem to have any initiative. And if one 
can’t answer a question oneself,” she went on, 
“one probably knows someone who can. I am 
requisitioning all my friends. Some day I shall 
put an awkward client on to you.” 

“I hope you will,” I said. 

“It isn’t only that they ask ridiculous things,” 


ADVISORY BEN 


91 


Ben confirmed, “but they so often want some¬ 
thing more, for nothing. ‘Now that I am here, 
they say, ‘perhaps you could tell me this.’ Only 
to-day a woman who had come about Spanish les¬ 
sons for her daughter asked me, as she was leav¬ 
ing and had paid, what to do with a cook who 
stole. I asked her if she could cook well, and 
when she said ‘Yes/ I told her to keep her, even 
if she stole diamonds and pearls. But it was 
nothing but odds and ends. ‘Odds and ends are 
replaceable/ I said, ‘but a cook isn’t. The whole 
world wants cooks at this moment. Besides/ I 
said, ‘to take odds and ends isn’t stealing at all— 
to a cook. We all have our code, and a cook’s 
code permits her to take odds and ends and smug¬ 
gle them out of the house, where she would be a 
pillar of honesty in the midst, say, of money or 
jewellery.’ Every one is dishonest somewhere. 
My father, I’m sure, is scrupulous in most ways, 
but he boasts that he always does railway com¬ 
panies if he can. The best parlourmaids take 
cigarettes. The nicest people pocket matches. 
If you want to know something about petty pur¬ 
loinings by what are supposed to be the elect, ask 
the secretary of any women’s club. And I’m told 
that in quite crack men’s clubs the nailbrushes 
have to be chained. 

“We have every kind of question and from 


92 


ADVISORY BEN 


every nationality,” she went on. “A little Jap¬ 
anese woman came in the other day to know how 
to get lessons in English—at least, not exactly 
lessons. What she wanted was someone to read 
English books aloud with her. Not to her; with 
her. They were to sit side by side so that she 
could follow the pronunciation. She knew Eng¬ 
lish perfectly, but had some of the words most 
comically wrong. But how natural! Indeed I 
don’t know how foreigners ever get our words 
right. This little Japanese pet was completely 
puzzled by ‘July,’ for instance. She used the 
word as if it rhymed with ‘truly.’ And why not? 
We say ‘duly’ and ‘unduly’ and ‘unruly’ and 
‘Julius’ and ‘Juliet.’ And then we say, ‘July.’ 
It’s too absurd.” 

“And could you help her?” I asked. 

“As it happened, I could. I remembered an 
old friend of ours who was only too glad to do it, 
and she has been writing since to thank me for 
giving her the opportunity of meeting anyone so 
charming.” 

“What I want to know,” I said, “is how the 
dickens do you know what to charge?” 

“There are several ways,” said Ben. “There’s 
a fixed tariff for certain things, and there’s so 
much a quarter of an hour for interviews. For 
shopping I charge a fee. A time-chart is kept 


ADVISORY BEN 


93 


and they pay so much an hour and for cabs. But 
I don’t do that for strangers, or, at any rate, not 
for anyone without an introduction. 

“Most people,” she continued, “want either 
servants or rooms; and I send them on to registry 
offices or house-agents, and share the commission. 
I couldn’t as a regular thing go into either of 
those businesses myself. There would be no time 
left. 

“Let me think of some of our recent applica¬ 
tions,” she said. “Oh, yes! A South African 
woman came in yesterday to know something 
about London churches. She was to be here for 
six months and wanted to take sittings some¬ 
where ; could I tell her the best preachers ? They 
must be evangelical or, at any rate, low. Any¬ 
thing in the nature of ritualism she couldn’t en¬ 
dure. 

“And then,” she went on, “there was a widow 
from Cheltenham who wanted advice about 
dogs. What was the best kind of dog for a lady 
living alone? She had noticed that the dogs of 
most ladies of her own age—that is to say, elderly 
—were very disobedient; but that would be no 
use to her. She did not want a dog that had to 
be led. I said that the most popular dog with 
elderly ladies at the moment was a Sealyham or 


94 


ADVISORY BEN 


West Highland. White, in any case. But I 
doubted if they were very obedient. 

“She asked whether I thought a lady dog or a 
gentleman dog the more suitable. Really, peo¬ 
ple are marvellous.” 

“And how did you charge her?” I asked. 

“I didn’t. I said that the matter was off my 
beat, and gave her the address of a dog-fancier. 

“She thanked me and went away, and ten min¬ 
utes later left a box of chocolates and a bunch of 
flowers. 

“Then they want to know the best musical 
comedy; the name of a play that it would be all 
right to take auntie to; the place to buy the best 
linen sheets; whether or not one has to dress in 
certain restaurants; what time the National Gal¬ 
lery opens; how long a car takes to Hampton 
Court; how to get Sunday tickets for the Zoo; 
and where one has the best chance of seeing the 
Prince of Wales. 

“But what most of them want,” said Ben, “is 
what they call a pied-a-terre . You’ve no idea what 
hosts of people there are who would be happy 
if they only had a foot to the earth!—in other 
words, a week-end cottage. The simplest place 
in the world, where they can rough it, you know; 
return to nature, shake the horrible city off! But 
when we come to particulars there must always 


ADVISORY BEN 


95 


be a tennis lawn, hot water laid on, bathroom and 
so forth. Sometimes they insist on a telephone. 
I could let twenty of these places a week; and 
there’s nothing so difficult to find! As it is, most 
of the real country folk, the cottagers proper, 
have been dispossessed in order that their homes 
may be converted for week-end purposes. 

“Another thing we are always being asked for 
is a man and his wife. But they are difficult to 
get, too, because if the man’s any good, the wife 
isn’t, and if the wife is capable, the man drinks. 

“But most of them,” she added, “I don’t see 
at all. Jan or Dolly disposes of them; and of 
course they don’t pay. But we can’t be rude to 
them. And after all, if you call your office, ‘The 
Beck and Call,’ you are rather, as Dolly says, 
‘arstin’ for it.’ In fact, Dolly wants us to make 
a charge for everything. He produced some 
placards the other day, which he had spent all 
Sunday on, to be hung up. One was for his own 
desk with:— 

LONDON QUESTIONS 

ANSWERED TO THE 
BEST OF OUR ABILITY 
2/6 EACH 

on it. 

“And one was for Jan:— 


96 


ADVISORY BEN 


GENERAL INFORMATION 
GIVEN 

2/6 EACH REPLY 

“And for my door:— 

MISS STAVELEY 
INTERVIEWS 

AT THE RATE OF 10/6 
FOR QUARTER OF AN HOUR 
OR LESS 

“But I wouldn’t let him put them up. ‘No/ I 
said. ‘Save them for when you set up in business 
for yourself.’ ” 

“ ‘Me?’ he said. ‘Not ’arf. I’m going to be a 
bookie.’ And I expect he is. ‘I’d be one now,’ 
he said, ‘if I had any capital. That’s all you 
want—a little capital to begin with. The rest 
is like shelling peas.’ ” 

“ ‘But in that case why are you here?’ I asked 
him. ‘Oughtn’t you to be in a bookmaker’s 
office?”’ 

“ ‘I dare say I ought,’ he said. ‘But T prefer 
this job at the time.’ ” 

“ ‘Why?’ I asked.” 

“ ‘Because, to tell you the brutal truth, miss,’ 
he replied, ‘I like you.’ ” 


ADVISORY BEN 


97 


XVII 

“No,” said the girl. “I don’t think anyone 
would do but Miss Staveley herself.” 

She was a pretty girl, somewhere in the last 
teens, but at the moment she was flushed and 
nervous and looked tired out. 

“Do you know her personally?” asked the loyal 
and wary Jan. 

“I could hardly say ‘know,’ ” replied the girl, 
“but we met at a dinner-party once. At Lady 
Toulmin’s. Perhaps you would tell her?” 

“You are quite sure it is nothing that I could 
do?” Jan inquired. 

“Quite,” said the girl. 

“But Miss Staveley is very busy,” Jan per¬ 
sisted. “We haven’t got through the letters yet. 
Indeed, we’re not really open. You must let me 
know what you want to see her about.” 

“I’m sorry,” said the girl, “but that’s impossi¬ 
ble. Do please give her this card”; and Jan suc¬ 
cumbed. 

Ben, in her fortress, examined the card. “Miss 


98 ADVISORY BEN 

Viola Marquand,” she read. “What is she like?” 
she asked. 

“Very young,” said Jan. “And very pretty. 
Says she met you at dinner once at Lady Toul- 
min’s. Her furs cost a hundred if they cost a 
penny. One of those gold mesh bags. No rouge, 
though. She seems excited and worried.” 

“And she won’t say what she wants?” 

“No,” said Jan. “Not to me. Not to under¬ 
lings. The boss or nothing.” 

“Well,” said Ben, “show her in; but keep an 
eye on the time. She oughtn’t to be here more 
than ten minutes. Interrupt us then.” 

Miss Marquand entered shyly. “It’s very kind 
of you to see me,” she said, “and I have no right 
to bother you like this; but I’m in great trouble 
and I remembered how much I liked you the only 
time we met. Do you remember?” 

“Yes,” said Ben. “I remember now.” 

“And I was hearing that you had opened an 
advice bureau, and so I have made so bold as to 
come to you, because no one wants advice—help, 
rather—more than I do.” 

“Well,” said Ben, “tell me.” 

“It’s very simple,” said the girl. “I have got 
to pay two hundred pounds and I haven’t a 
penny.” 

“Bridge?” Ben asked. 


ADVISORY BEN 


99 


“Poker,” said the girl. “I can hold my own 
fairly well at bridge, but poker is too much for 
me. I’ve done with it. Can you tell me what to 
do? I’m at my wits’ end, Miss Staveley. It’s 
terrible.” 

“You poor thing,” said Ben. “But, you know, 
this isn’t my line at all. I’m here for ordinary 
cases, such as finding houses and chauffeurs and 
all that kind of thing. This isn’t my line at all. 
Have you no one at home to confide in?” 

“Oh, no,” said the girl quickly. “No one. 
That would be impossible.” 

“Your father?” 

“My father!” the girl exclaimed, with dilating 
eyes. Then she laughed. “You don’t know r my 
father.” 

“But surely you must have friends?” 

“I don’t seem to have any friends quite of that 
sort,” said the girl. “There are plenty of people 
I know, but some I wouldn’t ask a favour of for 
the world, and the others either wouldn’t have 
any money or wouldn’t lend it. I’ve been going 
over their names again and again and they all 
seem wrong.” 

“Isn’t there the family lawyer?” Ben asked. 
“He wouldn’t give you away, even if he wasn’t 
too sympathetic. And it’s part of his business to 
raise money.” 


100 


ADVISORY BEN 


“The family lawyer!” the girl exclaimed, al¬ 
most angrily. “You don’t suppose I should 
bother you if I could go to him? Oh, forgive me 
if I sounded sharp,” she said. “But I’m all out. 
I never slept a wink last night. But of course I 
couldn’t go to him—he and father are much too 
thick. And if father knew of this, I don’t know 
what would happen. You see it happened once 
before. Not so badly, but badly enough.” 

“Ah!” said Ben. “And you gave a promise?” 

“Yes,” the girl admitted. “And I meant to 
keep it. But this time I swear I will. What I 
want you to do,” she went on, “is to be so kind as 
to tell me how money is raised. Couldn’t I bor¬ 
row it?” 

“I’m sure you could,” said Ben. “But the rate 
of interest would be very high, and how about 
paying it back?” 

“Yes,” said the girl, ruefully. “That’s just it. 
I thought of that.” 

“And you’d have to give some security,” said 
Ben. 

“Yes,” said the girl. “I thought of that too. 
Everything’s against me.” 

“What about selling some jewellery? Or bet¬ 
ter still,” Ben asked, “that mesh bag?” 

“It would be noticed at once,” said the girl. 
“No, I’ve thought of all those obvious things. 


ADVISORY BEN 


101 


And if I were to pawn, I should still have to 
find the money to redeem. No, it was because I 
had come to the end of thinking that I came to 
you. If you can’t help me I—well, I don’t know 
what.” 

She looked utterly broken. 

“Well, I must think about it,” said Ben, at 
last. “Give me till to-morrow morning and come 
then. But, remember, as I said, this isn’t my real 
work, and if I am useless you mustn’t grumble. 
Some things are too difficult.” 

“How kind you are!” said the girl. “I 
oughtn’t to have worried you about it. I can see 
that now. But I was in such a mess. Good-bye 
till to-morrow, and if you can’t do anything, you 

can’t, and I must-Well, I don’t know what I 

must do.” 



102 


ADVISORY BEN 


XVIII 

Ben, left alone, thought, she tells me (to my 
great pride) first of me. But I was abroad and 
without an address. It was a matter, she felt, 
that must be discussed with a third person. And 
it was complicated by the girl having already 
given a promise. 

By lunch-time she seemed no nearer any course 
of action, but on her way through the shop sud¬ 
denly remembered Patrick’s oracle. 

“What was that way of getting guidance 
called?” she asked him. “When you told me not 
to bother about ever paying my rent?” 

“Was it as definite as that?” he asked. “I’d 
forgotten.” He laughed. “The ‘Sortes Vir- 
gilianse,’ ” he went on. “Every one his own 
diviner. If you’re in a difficulty, try it again. 
Take any book at random and read where it 
opens.” 

Ben put out her hand and found that it had 
alighted upon “Coleridge’s Poems.” 

“Now open it and glance quickly,” said 
Patrick. 


103 


ADVISORY BEN 

Opening it, Ben’s eyes came instantly upon 
“The Ancient Mariner.” 

“Do I have to read the whole page?” she asked. 

“No,” said Patrick. “The title is enough. 
Isn’t it helpful?” 

“I don’t see how,” said Ben, and she left the 
shop. 

“It’s never failed yet,” he called after her. 
“Either up or down, it’s bound to work.” 

At intervals during the rest of the day Ben re¬ 
peated the words “ancient mariner,” “ancient 
mariner,” “venerable salt,” “antique navigator,” 
“senile sailor.” Nothing suggested anything. 
Perhaps, she thought, it means the sea. But 
what could the sea do for Miss Marquand? She 
couldn’t—no, impossible—have meant to suggest 
committing suicide; and certainly she was not go¬ 
ing to run away: that was not a solution to this 
kind of problem. Facing the music here. 

Ancient mariner, ancient mariner. . . . Ben 
racked her brains to think of any elderly naval 
men that she might know. There was her father’s 
friend, the Admiral, old Sir Albert Ross; but he 
was dead. Nor had he possessed a very sym¬ 
pathetic or understanding mind. The quarter¬ 
deck manner. “Damn it,” he would have said, 
“you’ve got to take your punishment. People 
who play cards for stakes they can’t afford get no 


104 ADVISORY BEN 

pity from me.” Well, the Admiral was dead, 
anyway. 

Ancient mariner, ancient mariner. What was 
the next thing to a real mariner? Why, a long¬ 
shoreman, a boatman on the river. And the next 
thing to the real sea? The Thames. Ought she 
to go down to the docks and see 'what happened 
there? But why the Thames? Why not a lake? 
There were boats on the Serpentine, close by, 
and this was a lovely evening and the attendants 
would certainly be there and one of them might 
be old. In fact they were sure to be old. And 
in conversation something useful might occur. 

Ben was on her way to the Serpentine when 
she thought of the Round Pond, and in a second 
Coleridge’s meaning flashed upon her. Of 
course. Why hadn’t she thought of it at once? 
Uncle Paul. Uncle Paul was the only ancient 
mariner in her acquaintance: Uncle Paul with his 
toy boats, and, even more, Uncle Paul with his 
kind old heart and wise if simple old head. She 
would go to see him directly after dinner. Of 
course! 

Uncle Paul, if he had known of Ben’s ap¬ 
proach, could not have been employed more suit¬ 
ably, both for her and for Coleridge, for he was 
rigging a ship. A three-masted schooner. And 
he looked quite old enough to be called ancient. 


ADVISORY BEN 105 

“Well, my dear,” he said. “How nice of you 
to call!” 

He moved away from the model and fetched 
the cigarettes. 

“Please don’t stop, Uncle Paul,” said Ben. “I 
shall be much happier if you go on with your 
work. In fact, you must. And it isn’t nice of me 
to call, really. Because I’ve come for advice. To 
bother you.” 

“Don’t apologize for that,” he said. “People 
like to be asked for advice. It’s flattering.” 

Ben told him the whole story—without names 
—while his busy fingers were deftly binding 
spars and threading cordage through tiny blocks. 

“And she struck you as being all right?” he 
asked at the end. “You felt the thing to be gen¬ 
uine? She really seemed to mean it when she 
said that this time it really was the end of her 
gambling?” 

“Absolutely,” said Ben. 

“She must be helped,” said Uncle Paul, and 
he went to his desk and wrote a cheque for two 
hundred pounds made out to his niece. “Give her 
this. But see that she pays it back to you, no 
matter in how small instalments, beginning with 
her next allowance. I’m afraid she must deny 
herself a lot of little luxuries; but that will be 
good for her. Yes,” he said, “she ought to go 


106 


ADVISORY BEN 


without all kinds of things she’s used to. But 
you’ll talk to her like a mother and tell her so, of 
course.” 

“A mother!” Ben exclaimed. “Why, I’m not 
more than three years older.” 

“Age has nothing to do with it,” said Uncle 
Paul. 

“You are the sweetest thing,” said Ben, as she 
folded the cheque and put it in her bag. And she 
hurried home. 

“Well,” said Patrick, putting his head in at 
Ben’s door the next afternoon, “did it work?” 

“To perfection,” said Ben. 

“It’s a wonderful method,” said Patrick. 

“I prefer it to all others,” said Ben. “And, by 
the way, I’ve got a new assistant. A Miss Mar- 
quand. We’re getting on, you see.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


107 




XIX 

Miss Marquand had only been working at 
“The Beck and Call” for a week or so when 
Toby, Ben’s youngest brother, paid his sister a 
visit. 

“How nice to see you,” said Ben, “but I hope 
you haven’t come, like all the others, to reproach 
me for opening the place.” 

“Not me,” said Toby. “I’m all for it. I want 
you to be in business and make money, because 
then I can borrow from you.” 

“My dear,” said Ben, “are you broke again?” 

“Absolutely,” said her brother. “But have 
they really been pitching into you?” 

“All of them but Uncle Paul,” said Ben. 
“Even Aunt Agatha, but of course she doesn’t 
count.” 

“Alicia, I suppose, wanted you to join her in 
Hove?” Toby inquired. 

“Yes,” said Ben, with surprise. “But how 
could you know?” 

“I guessed it,” said Toby. “I’m not such a 
fool as I look.” 


108 


ADVISORY BEN 


“I didn’t know you were so clever,” said Ben. 
“Did you also guess that poor Bertrand is alive?” 

“Alive? What on earth do you mean?” Toby 
asked. 

“I don’t mean anything on earth,” said Ben. 
“That’s just it. Alicia’s taken to spiritualism 
and she communicates with him every day.” 

Toby whistled. “That’s topping,” he said. 
“They ought to know everything up there: I 
wonder if I could get her to ask him for a win¬ 
ner.” 

“My dear boy,” said Ben, “are you betting 
again?” 

“Only now and then,” he said. “And I have 
such rotten luck. It would pay owners to make 
me an allowance to keep off their horses. But 
what I came about,” he went on, “is what is 
called my future. I wish you’d talk to the gov¬ 
ernor about it. He’s dead set on my going into 
Uncle Arthur’s office when I come dowm; but 
that means all kinds of restrictions. And how 
am I to keep up my cricket? I want to play seri¬ 
ously for a few seasons; they’ve got me down for 
Middlesex. I can see now that I’ve been rather 
an ass not working harder. I might have got a 
job then as a Sports Master at some big school, 
but even a Sports Master, it seems, must know 
something. There’s always a catch somewhere. 


ADVISORY BEN 


109 


So far as the winter goes, I’m not so hopeless, 
because you can get jobs now as Master of Cere¬ 
monies at the Swiss hotels—to arrange dancing 
and ice competitions. I know two or three men 
who do that and have a topping time.” 

It was at this moment that the door of Ben’s 
room opened and Miss Marquand’s head ap¬ 
peared round it. 

What else may be the answer to the poet’s 
question, “Who ever loved that loved not at first 
sight?” it is not Toby. For that had always been 
his only way, and it happened again at that mo¬ 
ment. 

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed when the door 
had closed again. “Who’s that?” 

“That’s one of my assistants,” said Ben; “and 
you will oblige me by not taking her out to lunch 
more than you can help, because we’re busy. 
Also, you can’t afford it. Also, she may be al¬ 
ready engaged.” 

“But she’s beautiful,” said Toby. “She’s ter¬ 
rific. What’s her name?” 

“Her name is Viola Marquand,” said Ben. 

“Viola Marquand! Great Scott! Why, I 
know her brother. He’s at New. She isn’t en¬ 
gaged, or if she is, he doesn’t know it.” 

“Why should he?” Ben asked. “You don’t 
know all that 1 do.” 


110 


ADVISORY BEN 


“He’s told me about her,” said Toby. “He 
said I should fall for her and I have. Do ask her 
to come in again about something.” 

“Not unless you make a promise,” said Ben. 

“Well?” Toby asked. 

“And keep it?” Ben said. 

“Naturally,” Toby replied. “If it isn’t too 
difficult.” 

“Not to have another bet this year,” said Ben. 

“Oh, I say!” said Toby. “That’s a bit thick.” 

“I mean it,” said Ben. 

Toby knitted his fresh and candid brows. 

“I may go in for a Derby sweep or two?” he 
asked. 

“Yes,” said Ben. “I’ll allow that. But no bet¬ 
ting. Promise?” 

Toby promised and Ben rang her bell twice. 

The door opened again and Miss Marquand’s 
piquant little face again appeared. 

“Oh, Miss Marquand,” said Ben, “please come 
in. This is my brother Toby, and if you have a 
minute will you let him see the morning paper. 
He is interested in racing and wants to look at 
to-day’s runners.” 

“My hat!” Toby gasped. “Ben, you’re the 
limit.” But his eyes were on Miss Marquand, 
and if ever a second sight corroborated the judg¬ 
ment of the first, it was then. 


ADVISORY BEN 


111 


The introductions being completed, Ben re¬ 
lented. “Never mind about the paper,” she said. 
“I was only joking.” Toby groaned. 

“But,” she went on, “what my brother really 
wants is to consult the ‘Scholastic Register.’ 
Will you let him see it?” 

And the young people left together. 


112 


ADVISORY BEN 


XX 

Tommy Clinton arriving as usual from 
Madeira in May, paid an early visit to “The 
Beck and Call,” dallying awhile at the book shop, 
to whose allurements had now been added a few 
water-colours; and for water-colours Tommy had 
ever had a weakness. Indeed, he played a little 
with a paint-box himself. 

“What on earth made you start this kind of 
thing?” he asked Ben, when their first greetings 
were over. 

“Why not?” she countered. “I couldn’t be 
idle. It’s rather fun too.” 

“I suppose you’ve got some kind of a lease?” 
Tommy asked. “You’re bound to let the experi¬ 
ment run a certain time?” 

“Of course,” said Ben. “I shouldn’t drop it 
unless I had to.” 

Tommy was silent. These hostages to fortune 
did not suit him in the least. 

“Is the fellow downstairs your landlord?” he 
asked. 

“I take this floor from the book shop, if that’s 


ADVISORY BEN 


113 


what you mean,” said Ben, smiling at Tommy’s 
transparency. “Did you go in there?” 

“I just looked round,” he said. “I didn’t 
speak to anyone. Conceited-looking chap, I 
thought, and singing too; something about 
O’Reilly. I can’t stand shopkeepers who don’t 
look like it, and sing. Shopkeepers should wear 
black, and rub their hands. This fellow’s in 
tweeds with a blue collar.” 

“That’s Mr. Harford,” said Ben. “His part¬ 
ner, Mr. St. Quentin, would have pleased you 
more: he’s only got one leg. They were at Ox¬ 
ford together and then in the War.” 

“You seem to know all about them,” said 
Tommy, with some bitterness. “Are they mar¬ 
ried?” 

“Oh, no,” said Ben. 

“Are they engaged?” Tommy pursued. 

“If you mean, Are they engaged to me? No,” 
said Ben. 

“Neither of them?” he asked. 

“Neither or both,” she replied. “You seem to 
have missed your vocation,” she added, laughing. 
“You ought to have been a cross-examiner. In 
fact, I believe you are—very cross.” 

“I’m frightfully sorry,” said Tommy; “but it’s 
awfully disappointing coming back and finding 
you locked up in an office. I was counting on 


114 


ADVISORY BEN 


seeing such a lot of you, and now you say you’ve 
only got Saturday afternoons.” 

“We must make the most of those,” she said. 

It was on their way back from a country walk 
that Tommy took Ben’s hand and repeated his 
annual question. 

“What about it?” he said. 

“About wh^Jt?” Ben asked, with an affectation 
of ignorance which was not really intended to de¬ 
ceive him. 

“ ‘You ’eard,’ ” he quoted. 

She disengaged her hand and laughed her soft 
laugh. 

“I can’t think why you’re so horrid to me,” he 
said. “What’s the matter with me?” 

“Nothing, Tommy,” she said. “I like you 
very much. I always have liked you. But I 
don’t want to marry you.” 

“Don’t you want to marry anyone?” he asked. 

“No one that I’ve yet seen,” she replied. 

“Not either of those book-selling fellows?” he 
asked. 

“Certainly not,” she said. 

“But you must marry,” said Tommy, very 
earnestly. “Of course you must. It isn’t right 
not to. What’s the matter with me, anyway? 
We’ve always been good friends; I’m not too 
poor; I hope I’ve got something better than the 


ADVISORY BEN 


115 


kind of face that only a mother can love. I’ve 
got two legs. Why are you so down on me?” 

“My dear boy, I’m not,” said Ben. “I have 
always liked you and I always shall like you, but 
marriage is so different. Please don’t ask me 
any more, there’s a dear, Tommy.” 

She.had said “Certainly not” with some firm¬ 
ness to Tommy’s question .about her landlords; 
but was it true? She pondered on the matter 
that night as she lay awake. Was she so insensi¬ 
tive to them? Would she absolutely turn down a 
proposal from either? And if she had a prefer¬ 
ence for one, which was it? Mr. Harford, so 
quick and gay and handsome and clean cut and 
impulsive, or Mr. St. Quentin, so quiet and amus¬ 
ing and lonely and in need of care? But whoso¬ 
ever she married, if she married at all—and why 
should she, for her life was very full of interest; 
this “Beck and Call” affair was very absorbing 
and it had got to be made a success; and mar¬ 
riage seemed so often to be the end of girls; look 
at poor Enid Stuart, what a wreck of a life that 
used to be such a lark; look at poor Daisy Forsi- 
ter, all her jolliness gone since she married that 
selfish young Greg—time enough to think of 
marriage two or three years hence when she was 
tired of being so busy. 

So her thoughts ran. 


116 


ADVISORY BEN 


Poor Tommy! Whosoever she married, if she 
married at all, would have to have more variety 
than that, be more of a companion. If she mar¬ 
ried at all. Someone who did everything with an 
air, with a natural commanding address, like, 
well, Jack Harford was rather like that—“Good 
morning, O’Reilly, you are looking well”— 
someone who had humour and sagacity and was 
in need of mothering a little like—well, Pat St. 
Quentin was not unlike that—“My bonnie lies 
over the sea.” But there were plenty of other 
men, too, if she really wanted one, and it was 
ridiculous to allow such a trifling business acci¬ 
dent as renting an upper floor from two young 
men to make these two young men the inevitable 
two from which she had to choose a partner for 
life. What rubbish! 


ADVISORY BEN 


117 


XXI 

Ben chanced to be in the front office one morn¬ 
ing when two children came in: a boy and a girl. 
They looked about twelve and ten. 

“Well?” she asked. 

“We came in,” said the boy, “because we’ve got 
a domestic problem and we thought you would 
help. We saw the sign.” 

“Of course I will,” said Ben. “If I can. Is it 
very difficult?” 

“It is rather,” said the little girl. “It’s Dad’s 
and Mum’s birthday to-morrow and we don’t 
know what to give them.” 

“But surely,” said Ben, “they don’t both have 
their birthday on the same day?” 

“Yes, they do,” said the boy. “It’s extraordi¬ 
nary, but they do.” 

“I think it’s perhaps why they married each 
other,” said the little girl. 

“It’s the most amazing coincidence I ever 
heard of,” said Ben. “Are you sure they’re not 
pretending?” 

“Quite sure,” said the boy. “Dad and Mum 


118 


ADVISORY BEN 


never pretend. And I don’t think anybody 
would pretend a thing like that, because it doesn’t 
really do them any good. You see it—it puts 
such a strain on our pocket-money—Eva’s and 
mine—to have their birthdays come both together 
like this.” 

“The worst thing of all,” said Eva, “is to have 
a birthday on Christmas day. Every one knows 
that.” 

“When is your birthday?” Ben asked. 

“On Christmas Day,” said Eva. 

“What a marvellous family!” exclaimed Ben. 
“And when is yours?” she asked the boy. “On 
February 29th, I suppose?” 

“Yes,” he said, “on February 29th. I only 
have a birthday once in four years. I mean a 
real one. Of course, as a matter of fact, people 
are very lenient.” 

“More and more remarkable!” exclaimed Ben. 
“I never heard anything like it. And are you the 
only children?” 

“Yes;” said Eva. 

“Before I can help you,” said Ben, “I must 
know how much money you’ve got.” 

“We’ve got five shillings each,” said the boy. 
“But of course we can’t spend all that on the 
present because we must give some to you. 
Mustn’t we?” 


ADVISORY BEN 


119 


“Why?” Ben asked. 

“It says so on the signboard,” said the boy. 
“ ‘Terms moderate.’ Terms mean we must pay, 
don’t they?” 

“Not in every case,” said Ben. “Not in this 
case. Any advice I can give to you is free, be¬ 
cause I’m so sorry about your birthdays. But I 
can’t advise until I know everything, so you must 
tell me. First about your mother. Tell me all 
about her tastes. Is she fond of reading?” 

“Yes,” said Eva. 

“New books or old?” 

“New books,” said Eva. “They come from 
the library. French books too.” 

“Is she fond of flowers?” 

“Yes,” said Eva, “she likes tulips.” 

“And has she any favourite colours?” 

“A kind of purply pink,” said Eva, after con¬ 
sideration. 

“No,” said Eric, firmly; “yellow. All the 
French books are yellow, and that proves it.” 

“Does she write a lot of letters?” Ben asked. 

“Not many,” Eva thought. 

“Does she play and sing?” 

“Oh, yes, she loves music,” said Eva. 

“And now for your father,” said Ben. “Is he 
old?” 

“Yes, very old,” said Eva. 


120 


ADVISORY BEN 


“How old?” 

“Well, quite twenty-eight,” said Eva. 

“He’s much older than that,” said Eric; “he’s 
going to be thirty-five; he said so this morning.” 

“And what is he fond of?” asked Ben. “Is 
he fond of golf?” 

“He plays golf,” said the boy, “but he’s chiefly 
fond of fishing. He’s always going off to fish 
at a place called Stockbridge.” 

“What is his favourite food?” Ben asked. 

After a good deal of difference of opinion and 
some heat, it was decided that their father was 
most addicted to eggs, of which he ate two every 
morning boiled for four minutes. 

“And do you want to join in these presents?” 
Ben asked, “and give each of them one that costs 
five shillings, or do you want to be independent?” 

This led to more debate and more heat, and 
it was at last settled that they would rather not 
unite but would deal separately with their 
parents. 

“Very well,” said Ben, “this is what I sug¬ 
gest. That one of you should give your father 
a little old book on fishing which we will get 
downstairs, and the other should give him two 
very pretty china egg-cups. And one should give 
your mother a box of purple sealing-wax for 
her letters (which is a good kind of present be- 


ADVISORY BEN 


121 


cause very likely she’ll let you help with the 
sealing), and the other should give her a little 
bottle of the best lavender water. And I’m very 
glad you called to ask me. Where do you live?” 

“Close by, in Eaton Square,” said the boy. 
“We pass here every day and we’ve always 
wanted to come in, but we’ve never had a real 
domestic problem before.” 

“And what do you collect?” Ben asked. “Be¬ 
cause every boy collects something, doesn’t he?” 

“Motor-cars,” said Eric. 

“Motor-cars!” Ben exclaimed. 

“He doesn’t mean the cars themselves,” said 
Eva. “Really, Eric, you are so silly! What he 
means is, he writes down in a book the numbers 
of all the cars he sees and the names of the makers 
of all he knows. I wish he wouldn’t,” she added, 
sadly; “it makes our walks so dreary for me.” 

“It’s the only thing that makes walks possible,” 
said Eric. 

They started to go out. At the door the boy 
stopped. “Are you sure we oughtn’t to pay you 
something?” he asked. 

“Quite,” said Ben. 

“I think you’re a wonderful adviser,” said 
Eva. 


122 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXII 

“You must pardon me for intruding without any 
real business reason,” said the pretty woman, 
“but I want to apologize for my children worry¬ 
ing you the other day. About birthday pres¬ 
ents.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Ben. “They were yours, 
then?” 

“Yes,” said her visitor, “but they had no right 
to take up your time like that.” 

“I was delighted that they did,” said Ben. 
“Children are very rare in this business. It’s a 
very pleasant change after the usual run of 
clients. And I thought it very clever of them 
to think of coming to me at all. Very few chil¬ 
dren would be so original.” 

“My name is Hill-Owen, and we live just 
round the corner in Eaton Square,” said the vis¬ 
itor. “And since I am here, I wonder if you 
would give me advice as to my cook. She’s 
young and very pretty, and she cooks very well, 
but she’s terribly attractive to Guardsmen. I 


ADVISORY BEN 123 

suppose good cooks are as difficult to find as 
ever?” 

“More so,” said Ben. “It’s not part of my 
business. This isn’t a registry office. But from 
the inquiries I get, I should say that the world’s 
greatest need at this moment is cooks.” 

“Then you agree with my husband,” said Mrs. 
Hill-Owen, “who says, ‘Never mind about the 
Guardsmen so long as dinner is all right’?” 

“I should take some precautions,” said Ben. 
“I don’t think Guardsmen ought to be there after 
ten, say.” 

“Guardsmen are very difficult to dislodge,” 
said Mrs. Hill-Owen, “and I’m afraid to go down 
and interfere, she’s so touchy. She might give 
notice. It’s the worst of this Knightsbridge dis¬ 
trict. I thought of a wonderful plan the other 
day, and that was to make her bring the key of 
the basement door up at ten every night; but as 
my husband said, ‘How can you tell she’s locked 
it?’ It’s really a terrible responsibility. And 
we’re away so much too. What would you do?” 

“I?” said Ben. “I should do my best to for¬ 
get.” 

“Would you? How clever of you! Thank 
you so much. I’ll try to.” 

This was one of Ben’s odd days. 

Mrs. Hill-Owen (she told me) had not been 


124 


ADVISORY BEN 


gone more than a few minutes when a Rolls 
Royce purred up to the door of “The Book- 
lover’s Rest,” and a richly dressed young woman 
emerged and made her way upwards to “The 
Beck and Call.” 

Ben, chancing to be in the front office, received 
her in person, and asked her requirements. 

“I want,” said the girl, “an engagement as 
parlour-maid.” 

“You want?” Ben exclaimed. “But for some¬ 
one else, of course.” 

“Oh, no,” said the girl. “For myself. I want 
to go into service.” 

“Come inside,” said Ben. “I must get this 
clear. You want,” she said, when they were 
seated, “a situation as a parlour-maid?” 

“Yes,” said the girl. “But it must be in a 
really good house—a nobleman’s for choice.” 

Ben’s surprise led the girl to be confidential. 

“I ought to explain,” she said, “especially as 
I’ve had no experience of anything but helping 
mother at home. The fact is dad has suddenly 
become rich—enormously rich—and everything 
has changed. We used to live in a little house in 
Ealing, but now dad’s bought one of those great 
places on Kingston Hill. He’s happy enough, 
pottering about the garden, but it’s very lonely 
for mother and me, because many of our old 


ADVISORY BEN 


125 


friends have disappeared—frightened, I suppose 
—and we can’t make new ones of the new kind 
because—well, we’re not easy with them. We 
don’t know how to behave or what to say. 
They’ve called, you see. So I thought it would 
be a wonderful thing if I took service in a good 
family and kept my eyes open. I’m very quick; 
I should soon pick it up; and someone was saying 
that ‘The Beck and Call’ was the best place to 
come to with any inquiry, so I came. What do 
you think, miss?” 

“You would have to keep your secret,” said 
Ben. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” the girl replied. 

“You’d have to leave that car behind.” 

“I shall love to,” said the girl. “It’s largely 
because of the chauffeur that I want to learn. 
He’s so superior. Mother and dad, of course, 
will never be able to deal with servants, but I feel 
that after a little while I shall know enough to 
keep them in their place. And of course when 
I’m through we shall have new ones, and so start 
fair.” 

“Well,” said Ben, “I think it’s a most original 
plan. The principal difficulty is the noblemen. 
They’re all so poor now that they probably do 
their own parlour-maiding. I know one person¬ 
ally who describes himself as the ‘Gentleman 


126 


ADVISORY BEN 


with a duster,’ and one of the most famous of our 
dukes boasts that he cleans the windows. You 
would take the lowest wages, of course?” 

“Oh, yes,” said the girl; “or none at all.” 

“No,” said Ben, “that would be very foolish. 
Never do that. You would be suspected at once; 
and if the other servants found out they would 
be impossible to you. By the way, had you 
thought of the other servants?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“The footman?” 

“Yes. But I’ve got to go through with it, and 
I’m very quick. You don’t think it’s unfair to 
the people who engage me to use them in this 
way?” 

“No, I don’t think so. All life is a lesson, 
and this is quite funny. But the real joke will 
come when you meet them later on, on level 
terms.” 

“Oh,” said the girl, “how terrible! I never 
thought of that. I must—I must think a little 
more about it,” she added, “and talk to mother.” 

She went off, and Ben watched the chauffeur’s 
face as she got into the car. It certainly had an 
expression that needed very drastic treatment. 


ADVISORY BEN 


127 


XXIII 

“I don’t want to be inquisitive or interfering,” 
said Ben to Viola Marquand, “but I think we 
ought to be frank with each other about Toby. 
I’m afraid that that engagement ring is his?” 

Viola looked a little confused, but admitted it. 

“And what are your plans?” Ben asked. 
“How long are you prepared to wait for him, 
and what do you propose to live on? Don’t mind 
those questions, but I feel rather responsible for 
both of you. I’m all the mother that Toby’s got, 
and to some extent I am in charge of you as well, 
aren’t I? Besides, I suppose I might be said to 
have thrown you together.” 

“Of course I don’t mind,” said Viola. “You’ve 
been far too kind. I like Toby tremendously. I 
don’t say I was anxious to be engaged, but he was 
miserable till I said yes.” 

“I’m sure he was,” said Ben. “He specializes 
in misery over delays. But what do you think 
he can do? And what will your people say?” 

Viola became very grave. “Yes,” she said, 
“what, indeed? They are sufficiently cross that 
I am here doing work; but that I don’t mind. 


128 


ADVISORY BEN 


Girls have to expect that. I dare say you had 
some trouble yourself?” 

Ben smiled. “Just at first,” she said. “But 
fathers soon forget. They’ve got other things to 
think about.” 

“Mine doesn’t seem to have,” said Viola. 
“He’s bent on my marrying someone rich, and 
he’s afraid that working here may prejudice rich 
men against me.” 

“That’s absurd,” said Ben. “Men who want 
to marry pretty girls can’t be prejudiced against 
them by anything; that is if they really want 
to marry them. People do what they want. 
Don’t you agree?” 

“Yes,” said Viola, “I think I do. But it 
wouldn’t convince father. Father hasn’t much 
imagination, I’m afraid, and when he gets an idea 
he sticks to it.” 

“And your mother?” Ben asked. 

“Mother does what she’s told,” said Viola. 
“Poor mother! We shan’t all grow like that, I 
hope.” 

“Not if you marry Toby,” said Ben. “Toby 
may be capricious and rather tiresome, but he’ll 
never dictate. Toby’s idea of marriage is to be 
deliciously, luxuriously enslaved. But if I were 
you I shouldn’t wear that ring. He’s too young. 
If you take my advice—and I don’t think you 


ADVISORY BEN 


129 


are so deeply in love as to refuse to—you will give 
it back to him and say that you will wait a year 
before you ask for it again, if then.” 

“But it will break the poor child’s heart,” said 
Viola. 

“Not more than is good for him—and for both 
of you,” said Ben. “Think it over, anyway. If 
you made it a condition that he was earning 
enough money for both of you—or was in the way 
to do so—it would be all to the good. His whole 
tendency is to take things too easily, which 
wouldn’t matter so much if he wasn’t engaged. 
But, being engaged, he must work.” 

“It sounds frightfully sensible,” said Viola. 
“And not at all like me.” 

“Well, your father would say the same,” said 
Ben, “and very definitely too. It’s inevitable if 
you admit the engagement. How much better 
for you to suggest it amicably!” 

“I’ll try,” said Viola. “But it’s rather rough 
luck.” 

She drew the ring slowly off her finger and 
looked wistfully at the mark it had left. 

“You really are fond of him?” Ben asked. 

“I think so,” said Viola. 

“It’s so difficult,” said Ben, in one of the worst 
sentences ever constructed, “for sisters to under¬ 
stand anyone losing their heads over their 
brothers.” 


130 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXIV 

It was early in June that I had an urgent call 
from Ben asking if I would help her. A Cana¬ 
dian woman had been in to say that her husband, 
who was an invalid, had one mastering wish, and 
that was to hear the nightingale again before he 
returned home, probably for ever. Ben knew 
nothing of nightingales; but she wanted to oblige, 
and would I take the affair in hand?—my ac¬ 
quaintance with those birds being (I assume) 
notorious. 

I agreed. 

Mr. Measure was rather a tragic figure. A 
wealthy Canadian of cultured tastes, he had been 
stricken when only in the fifties, and this was a 
last visit to Europe to see once again the beautiful 
things that he knew so well and would regret so 
keenly. For “Dying,” as he said to me, “would 
be nothing if were it not for what we leave be¬ 
hind.” 

They had been to Florence, to Siena, to 
Perugia, to Venice, to Rome, to little quiet places 
among the Italian hills that had old associations, 


131 


ADVISORY BEN 

to Chamounix again, to Avignon and Arles, to 
Puy-de-Dome. In a day or so they were to sail 
for Quebec, where his home was and where his 
grave would be. 

He had but one wish left as regarded his Eng¬ 
lish visit, and that was to hear the nightingale. 
It had suddenly come to him as he read, in a 
paper some reference to their season of song— 
he had had the idea that it was earlier and now 
finished—and his wife had chanced upon Ben’s 
signboard and had asked for information there: 
as it happened, very fortunately. 

I called at their hotel to discuss our plan of 
action. Mr. Measure, poor fellow, was clearly 
very ill; he was thin and weak, but his eye was 
bright and he was full of enthusiasm for the ad¬ 
venture. He did not want to sleep in a country 
inn, but did not mind how late he returned to 
London. Would I mind driving in a motor am¬ 
bulance with himself and his wife? 

Not at all. 

His idea was that we should leave London 
after a very early dinner and go straight to a 
likely spot, hear the nightingale, and drive back. 
If we heard one sooner, so much the better. 

“I know of a practically certain place,” I said, 
“but it is a little late. A fortnight ago would 
have been better. Remember, I can’t promise.” 


132 


ADVISORY BEN 


It was a favourable evening on which we slid 
away from Mr. Measure’s hotel. I had my mind 
on a particular meadow in Sussex, just north of 
the Downs, skirted by a lane. This meadow is 
surrounded by a high, untrimmed hedge with 
oaks at intervals, and there is a tinkling stream 
close by. A few cottages here and there in the 
neighbourhood complete the nightingales’ re¬ 
quirements, for they are fond of human sounds. 
In this meadow, which has never disappointed me 
yet—at any rate in late April and all May— 
nightingales have the enchanting habit of singing 
in threes, one against the other at the points of 
the triangle. 

Knowing by bitter experience how useless it 
is to squander minute directions on such insensi¬ 
tive, non-receptive, unobservant, and unremem¬ 
bering creatures as chauffeurs, I sat on the box; 
not sorry either, for it was warm, and talking in 
a car is fatiguing. 

We left London by way of Battersea Bridge 
and kept on the Brighton road as far as Hand 
Cross—over Walton Heath and down Reigate 
Hill and through Crawley. At Hand Cross we 
branched to the right, leaving Cuckfield on our 
left, and came through Bolney to Albourne and 
due south as far as Muddles Wood cross-roads. 
At intervals I had fancied I heard the magic 


133 


ADVISORY BEN 

notes and had slackened the car—you know how 
easy it is to imagine this sound—but always it 
was a false alarm, or the song had been only of 
momentary duration. 

At Muddles Wood we turned to the right. 
The air was warm and there was no wind, only 
a sighing of the earth. The moon was now 
bright and the great bulk of the South Downs, 
sweetly undulating, rose against the quiet sky. 
We crept slowly along for a quarter of a mile 
and then dipped sharp to the left for fifty yards 
and stopped. This was the spot. 

For a while there was not a sound, save now 
and then a rustle in the undergrowth, the whistle 
of a far-distant train, a car on the Henfield road, 
an owl’s hoot, or a dog barking. 

I had begun to be assured of the worst when 
there came a liquid note. Then silence again; 
and then suddenly a burst of song. It was very 
brief, and there was again a disconcerting silence; 
but then another singer replied, and gradually 
their songs grew more steady. They behaved 
like angels; they went through everything in the 
repertory, and although their voices were not in 
the perfection of mid-May, they were beautiful 
enough, and one of them repeated that plaintive 
single cry seventeen times. 

Even the chauffeur was impressed. He had 


134 


ADVISORY BEN 


heard about nightingales all his life, but this was 
his first experience of them. Like a canary, 
wasn’t it? 

I did not intrude upon the sick man until the 
time came to go. He was in an ecstasy and I 
wished that Ben could see him. It would have 
been a triumph for “The Beck and Call.” 

“But I should call that song a happy one,” he 
said. “Certainly not melancholy, except very 
rarely. Its charm is its volume and exultation, 
and the careless ease of it.” 

I agreed. “I am against Matthew Arnold 
here,” I said. “To me the truest line about the 
bird in our poetry is in William Cory:— 

Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake. 

That’s what they are: pleasant voices, trium¬ 
phantly ‘telling the world.’ ” 

“Even Keats,” he said, “makes the song a little 
too voluptuous and passionate, although how true 
to say that the nightingale ‘among the leaves’ 
has never known 

The weariness, the fever, and the fret!’* 

He paused, and then repeated, almost in a 
whisper, the lines:— 

Now more than ever it seems rich to die, 

To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 


ADVISORY BEN 


135 


While thou art pouring forth thy soul aloud 
In such an ecstasy! 

To me, though .he was but a stranger, these 
lines, as he murmured them, were, since I knew 
his secret, infinitely pathetic; to his poor wife 
they must have meant anguish. 

The next morning I called at the hotel to 
see how Mr. Measure was and to bid him good¬ 
bye. He re-expressed his gratitude for the 
night’s entertainment, and said he should die with 
that music in his ears. I reproved him for talking 
of dying soon with such certainty. 

“Dying men,” he said, “can prepare for death 
with more courage, composure, and acceptance 
than those who watch them, and I have no doubt 
that you are sorrier for me than I am for myself. 
Not that I want to die, but I know I must. I 
won’t be insincere about it. I know I am going 
to die very shortly after reaching home, because 
I have the means of death always with me. I 
know that my‘trouble is incurable and that it is 
getting worse. Would you have me a burden on 
those around me? My mind, as I grow weaker, 
will be less clear, less trustworthy; would you 
cherish decay?” 

I had no rebutting argument to set up. 

“I have always,” he went on, “dreaded this 
disease, and when I was hale and strong I pre- 


136 


ADVISORY BEN 


pared accordingly. I have no fears; any post¬ 
ponement is due to the fact that I want to see my 
lawyer again and be at home. Otherwise I should 
take a dose to-day. 

“The greatest drawback to suicide,” he con¬ 
tinued, with a whimsical smile, “is not want of 
decision, but a dislike of giving trouble. If I 
were to commit suicide now, it would have to be 
done in a hotel, and that isn’t fair to the hotel. 
Nor should I care to be found lying in a field: 
that would mean a shock to someone and too 
much newspaper squalor after. Also a public 
mortuary. In any well-organized State there 
would, of course, be a great pool of quicklime 
into which, after taking poison, we could roll; 
but lacking that we must behave ourselves as 
best we can. By waiting till I get to Canada, I 
can complete my will, fold my arms, and die like 
a gentleman in bed.” 

“While admiring,” I replied, “your determina¬ 
tion and nice taste, I would remind you that next 
spring the nightingales will be singing again. 
You might still be alive and well enough to hear 
them.” 

“I refuse,” he said, “to linger on, a wreck.” 

And so passed Mr. Adrian Measure from my 
life. 


ADVISORY BEN 


137 


XXV 

“Dear Miss Staveley, ,, ran the note which Ben 
found on her desk, “will you do me the divine 
favour of coming to the theatre with me this 
evening? If so, name your play, and I will 
fetch you at your rooms at 7.5, and we will dine 
first. I do so hope you are free and that the 
notion likes you.” 

“Yours sincerely, 
“John Harford” 

Ben accepted. 

It was a very smart Mr. Harford who drove 
up to Aubrey Walk that evening and carried 
her off to dinner. The tweeds had given place 
to superlative dress clothes and a white waist¬ 
coat ; and there was no dog. 

He went upstairs for a moment to be intro¬ 
duced to Melanie, who had insisted on this cere¬ 
mony. “And later,” she had said, “I want to. 
see the other one too.” 

“Why?” Ben asked. 

“Just curiosity,” said Melanie. “It is always 
interesting to see the men who fall in love with 


138 


ADVISORY BEN 


one’s friends. And these two seem to be so 
different that it is more interesting than ever. 
Why don’t you marry both?” 

“Have I ever given you any reason to sup¬ 
pose I should marry either?” Ben asked. 

“Plenty,” said Melanie. 

“How ridiculous you are!” said Ben. She was 
really rather annoyed. “I am so tired of this 
notion that men and women who are friendly 
must be going to marry.” 

“It is doubtful, however,” said Melanie, “if 
any weariness on your part will lessen the popu¬ 
larity of union between the sexes.” 

“Oh, Melanie, shut up!” said Ben. “How tired 
I am also of that word ‘sexes’!” 

“None the less, old dear,” said Melanie, “there 
it is, and it’s come to stay. And to a large extent 
that’s why I’ve got to eat my dinner alone this 
evening.” 

“Again I say, shut up!” said Ben. 

“How extraordinarily different you and Miss 
Ames are!” said Jack, as the cab started. “And 
yet she’s very nice too. But she’s so detached, so 
cool, so ironical.” 

“She’s a very close observer under it all,” said 
Ben. 

“I’m rather scared of her,” said Jack. 


ADVISORY BEN 


139 


“What becomes of Soul when you go out in 
the evening?” Ben asked. 

“He mopes,” said Jack. “I’ve got an excellent 
landlady, who does her best to keep him happy, 
but he has no life away from me really. Some¬ 
times when I walk and go to the pit, I take him 
to the theatre and leave him with friendly com¬ 
missionaires ; but it isn’t a kindness because, as I 
can’t give him any notion of how long I shall be, 
he spends the time in searching the appearance of 
every passer-by. Considering how near the 
ground his eyes are, this must be a very tiring and 
anxious occupation.” 

“But when you do arrive, his joy makes up for 
everything,” Ben suggested. 

“Yes,” said Jack. “Dogs have wonderful com¬ 
pensations. Still, I doubt if the Fates were quite 
kind to them to make them at once so understand¬ 
ing and so dumb, or to us to make them so short¬ 
lived. You like them, don’t you?” 

“I adore them,” said Ben. 

“Would you care to have Soul?” Jack asked. 
It was a terrible wrench, but he asked it. (“Love 
my dog, love me.”) 

“Oh, no,” said Ben. “Never! If ever a dog 
belonged to one person, and one only, it is Soul. 
And even if I accepted him, he would still be 
yours. He would be too loyal to transfer any 


140 


ADVISORY BEN 


but superficial affections. But you are very gen¬ 
erous to make the offer at all,” she added, “and 
I shall never forget it.” 

Melanie was sitting up when Ben returned. 
She was one of those girls who prefer the small 
hours. 

“How do you find Mr. Harford?” she asked. 

“He’s very jolly,” said Ben. 

“Yes, but has he got anything to say?” 

“Not very much,” said Ben. “He isn’t quite 
grown up. Such lots of young Englishmen 
aren’t. I suppose it’s this domination of the ball 
which keeps them boys. French youths, who 
don’t play games, always look so old. But he’s 
very nice and kind.” 

“I’ll bet he didn’t try to kiss you in the cab,” 
said Melanie. 

“Certainly not,” said Ben. “Why should 
he?” 

“So many of them want to,” said Melanie. 
“But the older ones chiefly. All the same,” she 
added, “if you’re not careful you’ll very shortly 
have the chance of offering to be a sister to him.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t be so absurd,” said Ben. 
“Your suspicious nature smirches everything. 
Mr. Harford likes me, I know, but that’s all.” 

“Was he always as smart as that?” Melanie 
inquired. 


ADVISORY BEN 141 

“I don’t know,” said Ben. “I’ve never seen 
him in evening clothes before.” 

“And he made no overtures to-night? Will 
you swear?” 

“Of course,” said Ben. 

“He didn’t offer you his spaniel or anything 
like that?” 

“Oh, Melanie, how horrid you are!” Ben ex¬ 
claimed as she banged the door. 

Melanie chuckled. 


142 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXVI 

The Wimbledon tournament now being over, in 
which Tommy Clinton had survived but two 
rounds, that young gentleman was only too free 
to devote his time to Ben, and it was therefore 
the more galling to him to find her so busy. He 
called so frequently that Mr. Harford was con¬ 
strained to mention the fact. 

“You will excuse me, Miss Staveley,” he said 
one afternoon after Tommy had left, “but would 
you mind if we put a ladder against the wall for 
your friend to come and leave by?” 

“Which friend?” Ben asked. 

“The affable gent in the Panama hat,” said 
Mr. Harford, “who is here most days and walks 
through our modest but well-conducted premises 
as if they were a pig-sty. We don’t mind a man 
despising the treasures of literature; reading is, 
after all, a matter of taste; but we do bar the 
way he scowls at us. Even Pat, mild and tolerant 
as he is, almost squared up to him to-day. My 
own idea is to exchange this poor little creature 
here—who shares the besetting sin of all spaniels 


143 


ADVISORY BEN 

in being too ready to make indiscriminate friends 
—for a man-eating mastiff. What’s his quarrel 
with us, anyway? Does he dislike us personally 
or did a book seller once try to do him in?” 

Ben laughed. “Poor Tommy!” she said. “Be 
a little patient, he’s going back to Madeira next 
week.” 

“An excellent place for him,” said Mr. Har¬ 
ford. 

Ben herself found Tommy rather a trial, for 
he not only looked at her with such hungry hope¬ 
lessness, but he took up a great deal of valuable 
time. 

His next visit was a veritable ordeal. 

“Look here, Ben,” he said, “I’ve been working 
for you since I was here last and I think you’ll 
agree that I’ve been rather useful. Of course 
I hate your being in this business—the very 
phrase ‘Beck and Call’ makes me sick, for a girl 
like you too!—and being mixed up with those 
two fellows downstairs. By the way, the lame 
one sings too: something about his ‘Bonnie,’ con¬ 
found him! Well, since you’re set on sticking to 
business, and since you won’t do what I ask, I 
want to help you to be more comfortable and 
more successful. So I’ve been nosing about and 
I’ve found you some really good premises in a 


144 


ADVISORY BEN 


central part, far removed from this back-alley 
and those musical shopkeepers downstairs.” 

“What ever do you mean?” Ben demanded, 
her colour rising dangerously. 

“Just what I have said,” Tommy replied. “I 
have found you some really good premises. In 
Dover Street. Close to the big hotels, close to 
Piccadilly, and approached from the street direct 
by a staircase. Very important, that.” 

“My dear boy, no doubt you meant it very 
well,” said Ben, with some temper, “but I can’t 
have my affairs interfered with like this. I have 
a lease here, for one thing; for another, it has 
become well known. For another, I don’t want 
to move. Dover Street, no doubt, is a good posi¬ 
tion; but I can’t afford Dover Street. This is 
cheap and central enough. I hope you haven’t 
committed yourself at all.” 

“I’ve got an option,” said Tommy. 

“Then please oblige me by instantly getting 
rid of it,” said Ben. 

“As to the higher rent,” said Tommy, “you’d 
make that up in a jiffy when people found you 
had a separate entrance and didn’t have to go 
through a shop.” 

“Please get rid of it instantly,” said Ben. “I 
shan’t have a moment’s peace of mind till you 


ADVISORY BEN 145 

do. I’ll come down with you,” she said, with a 
sudden foreboding of an explosion below. 

“Oh, Ben,” said Tommy, miserably, “and I 
did want to help you! All right,” he added 
angrily, “I’ll go. And I may as well say good¬ 
bye now instead of next week. Good-bye.” 

“But I’m coming down with you all the same,” 
said Ben. 


146 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXVII 

“Is that Ben?” Toby asked over the telephone at 
Aubrey Walk, one evening. 

“Speaking,” said Ben. 

“I must see you,” said Toby. “At once.” 
“But I was just going out,” said Ben. “Where 
are you?” 

“I’m at home,” said Toby. “I’ll come and go 
with you to wherever you’re going. It’s fright¬ 
fully important. It’s a matter of life and death.” 
Ben smiled. She had been expecting this. 

“I was only going to Uncle Paul’s,” she said. 
“I’ll wait for you.” 

“Righto!” said Toby. “I’ll come in a taxi.” 
He came, looking wild and haggard. 

“This is awful,” he said. “Vi says she won’t 
wear my ring for six months. And she wants me 
not to see her.” 

“For how long?” Ben asked. 

“Six months: an eternity. How can I keep 
aw^ay from her for six months? It’s too dreadful! 
If I had any poison I’d take it; but I haven’t. 


ADVISORY BEN 147 

And chemists are so jolly careful since those 
Welsh cases.” 

“Six months isn’t very long,” said Ben; “only 
twenty-six Sundays. You can stand that. 
Didn’t Viola say anything else? She is still fond 
of you, isn’t she?” 

“She said so, but I don’t understand. If 
you’re fond of anyone you want to be with them. 
At least, I do. I don’t get this fondness that 
gives you the boot. She said,” he went on, “that 
to be engaged to me was impossible until I had 
something to do. Her father would never allow 
it. If I could find something to do, with pros¬ 
pects of an income within six months, she would 
defy her father and marry me; but she couldn’t 
as it is. Why she doesn’t defy him now, I can’t 
see.” 

“Well,” said Ben. “I suppose that a father, 
as a father, has some rights—at least as long 
as his daughter is dependent on him.” 

“But Vi’s earning her own living, isn’t she?” 
Toby asked. “Don’t you pay her a salary?” 

“Not just yet,” said Ben. “But we won’t go 
into that. The point is, that she lives at home 
and Mr. Marquand is her father.” 

“I had a notion that all this father stuff was 
out of date,” said Toby. “It is, in the novels 
I’ve read.” 


148 


ADVISORY BEN 


“Only if the children choose to rebel,” said 
Ben. “And neither Viola nor you are going to. 
Besides, I think he’s right. He’s Viola’s father; 
he’s brought her up. Why should he allow her 
to become engaged to the first irresponsible 
young man who comes along?” 

“Why do you call me irresponsible?” Toby 
asked. 

“Well, aren’t you? Where is your responsi¬ 
bility, anyway? You’re only twenty, to begin 
with. You’ve only just left Oxford. What do 
you know?” 

“I know my way about,” said Toby. 

“So does Dolly, my office boy,” said Ben, 
“who’s only sixteen. Probably much better than 
you, because he knows how many pennies there 
are in a shilling, which you certainly don’t. But 
what do you know? What have you learnt?” 

“I know a certain amount of Greek and 
Latin,” said Toby. 

“Yes, but how much? Not enough to be a 
schoolmaster?” 

“No,” said Toby. 

“Do you know any French?” 

“Enough to get through a French novel,” said 
Toby. 

“Yes, but not enough to explain anything to 
a custom house officer at Calais?” 


ADVISORY BEN 


149 


“No,” said Toby. “Emphatically not.” 

“What else do you know?” 

“I know how to order a dinner.” 

“That’s better,” said Ben. “That’s the first 
useful thing you’ve mentioned.” 

“And I know a lot of men,” said Toby. 

“That’s good, too,” said Ben. 

“And I’ve been asked to play for Middlesex,” 
said Toby. “And, by the way, Vi adores cricket. 
It’s quite the thing now for a man when he’s play¬ 
ing away from home to take his wife with him. 
Heaps of them do. Vi knows quite a lot about 
the game. You’d be surprised.” 

“I should forget all that,” said Ben. “You 
can’t play for a county and be worth five hun¬ 
dred a year in a short time. If you really want 
Vi while you’re both young, you must think 
about work, and nothing but work. Do you 
want her as much as that? As much as to give 
up cricket?” 

“Of course,” said Toby. “Of course I do. I 
can’t live without her.” 

“You mean,” said Ben, “you dislike the 
thought of living without her; but you’ll find 
yourself doing so, all right. And how much 
does she want you?” 

“I don’t know,” said Toby. “I don’t see why 


150 


ADVISORY BEN 


she should want me at all; but she seems to. We 
seem to suit each other down to the ground.” 

“And you really and truly believe that you 
would like to become a married man and have a 
small house and go home every evening to dinner 
and play cricket only on Saturdays? You would 
look upon that as the perfect life?” 

“Absolutely,” said Toby. 

“Very well then,” said Ben, “you must act 
accordingly. You must remember those old 
fairy-tales we used to read, where the wood¬ 
cutter’s son, or whoever it was, had to perform 
all kinds of difficult tasks before he could win the 
princess. Your task is, as quickly as possible, to 
go into some business and make yourself indis¬ 
pensable. So far as I can see, all that Oxford 
has done for you, if you are to make money, is 
to give you an agreeable accent and nice cool 
manners. I fancy it’s the times you’ve played 
truant in London or were at home in the vaca¬ 
tions that have really been most useful. You 
couldn’t learn at Oxford to order dinner.” 

“But what am I to do?” Toby asked. “That’s 
the question. The governor wants me to go into 
Uncle Arthur’s office in the city. But what’s the 
good of that? He’s got three partners as it is, 
all with sons. It would be years before I got a 
footing there.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


151 


“No,” said Ben. “I shouldn’t vote for that. 
You’d simply loaf and gamble. I’ll talk to father 
about it.” 

“It’s a pity you stopped me betting,” said 
Toby. “If you hadn’t, I should be rich to-day. 
That priceless boy of yours gave me a tip for a 
100 to 8 winner, but I didn’t do it. He’s a 
marvel. He knows the whole thing—trainers, 
jockeys, pedigrees, courses—and he hears things 
too. Your friend Harford follows his advice like 
a baby.” 

“You promised,” said Ben. 

“I know,” said Toby, “and I’ll stick to it; 
but I think it was a mistake.” 

“No,” said Ben, “it wasn’t. But, anyway, we’ll 
forget it and concentrate on the future. I’ll go 
and see father first. After all, it’s his job to see 
that you are started in something, and meanwhile 
don’t be depressed. You ought to be proud to 
be put on your mettle for a girl like Vi. It makes 
a knight of you! You’ll be happier now, won’t 
you?” 

And Toby promised. 


152 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXVIII 

But Colonel Staveley once again avoided a re¬ 
sponsibility, for chance made me the solver of the 
problem. 

The very next morning, as it happens, I had 
a letter from my old friend Marrable Leigh. 

Marrable Leigh was one of those men who 
move amiably and quietly about on Tom Tid¬ 
dler’s ground picking up gold and silver. He 
was in no business and he was in all. He was 
on a Board here and a Board there, and he had 
a complimentary pass on every railway in the 
country: a privilege that is extended only to 
those who can afford to pay for it. To the rich 
shall be given, and Marrable Leigh was permitted 
as seldom as possible to pay for anything. Even 
his wine merchant implored his acceptance of a 
dozen, just to try, and theatrical managers were 
always sending him boxes. But he deserved his 
good luck, for he was a benign and philanthropic 
creature, and he had the softest white hair I ever 
saw. 

“I wonder,” he wrote, “if you know of a nice 


ADVISORY BEN 


153 


young man who could manage a county club. 
There’s a very fine house and estate in Surrey 
going for a song, and I think it would be fun 
to make a residential place of it, with plenty 
of lawn-tennis courts and a golf links, billiard- 
rooms, and so forth. A young athletic man with 
brains, and plenty of friends, but not necessarily 
experience. The amateur is often best for this 
kind of thing. My idea is perhaps to live there 
myself and make a hobby of it as well as a home. 
You may come in on the ground floor if you 
like.” 

Following the line of least resistance, I took 
this letter at once to “The Beck and Call.” 

Ben read it and her excitement was intense. I 
never saw her look so animated and indeed beau¬ 
tiful: her colour was brilliant. 

“Oh, dear!” she said, with a sigh that was sheer 
relief and content, “how amazing! And to come 
to-day too!” 

She took the telephone and called for a number. 

“Is that you, Price?” she asked. “Miss Ben 
speaking. Is Mr. Toby down yet? He’s hav¬ 
ing breakfast. Well, tell him to come instantly 
to Motcombe Street. Very important. Call a 
taxi for him.” 

“Oh, dear, how happy I am!” she said. And 
then she told me about Toby and his affairs. 


154 


ADVISORY BEN 


“Of course Toby’s exactly what is wanted,” 
she said. “He has heaps of friends at Oxford, 
and there are father’s club friends, too. He’s 
very good at games. He’s mad to throw himself 
into something and prove that he isn’t just a dud. 
And there’s this love trouble to incite him to do 
more than his best. Don’t you agree?” 

“Well,” I said, “it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t. 
Having come here for advice I shall take it. But, 
as it happens, I do agree. I think Toby ought to 
be splendid, and it is like Marrable Leigh’s in¬ 
stinct to fasten on that type.” 

When Toby came in he took fire at once. “Of 
course I can do it,” he said. “I’m used to manag¬ 
ing. Although no one knew it I deputized for 
our bursar lots of times, behind the scenes. And 
I know of a ripping butler out of a job at this 
moment, at the Carterets’ at Hurley, you know,” 
he explained to his sister. “They’re giving up 
their house. He’s a nailer!” 

Ben looked proudly at me. 

“And if the governor was allowed to take a 
few shares it would be all to the good,” Toby 
continued. “It would interest him in it.” 

Ben looked still more proud. “Not such a fool 
as you thought him, this boy,” her expression 
seemed to say. And how true it is that oppor¬ 
tunity so often makes the man! 


ADVISORY BEN 


1 55 


“Couldn’t we see Mr. Marrable Leigh now?” 
Toby asked. 

“I think we might ring up,” I said; and we did 
so and made an appointment. 

Let it suffice to say that we spent a most amus¬ 
ing day motoring to Fairmile Towers, exploring 
the house and grounds, and motoring back. 

That evening Toby dined with Marrable 
Leigh; and the next day Miss Marquand was 
again—under the rose—wearing his ring. 


156 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXIX 

“Look here, Ben,” said Colonel Staveley, “some¬ 
thing awful’s happened and I want your help.” 

He was unusually smart in appearance, Ben 
noticed. 

“Tell me quickly,” she said. 

“It’s in this cable,” said the Colonel. “Mer¬ 
rill’s husband.” 

Ben read the message, which stated that the 
Rev. Egbert Bourne had died of pneumonia in 
Minneapolis a day or so before. 

“Merrill’s got to be told,” said the Colonel. 

“Of course,” said Ben. “You’ll go down at 
once, won’t you?” She reached for the “A.B.C.” 

“Well, the fact is,” said the Colonel, “I can’t. 
Most unfortunate, but I’ve got an old engage¬ 
ment for to-day and I can’t get out of it. One 
of those postponed things which it’s idiotic to put 
off any more. For three years now I’ve promised 
to go to Ascot and each time something has oc¬ 
curred.” 

“But surely Belle wouldn’t mind—considering 
everything,” said Ben. 


ADVISORY BEN 


157 


“Belle?” replied her father. “Oh, yes! But 
it isn’t Belle. Belle doesn’t care about racing. 
It’s Lady Dunster. I should take Belle too, of 
course, if she wanted; feel it my duty to; but she 
doesn’t care about racing, and it would be too 
absurd to disappoint Lady Dunster again. On 
such a fine day, too. And, after all, it isn’t as 
if he died here. All those thousands of miles 
away! So I thought you’d be the good, kind girl 
you always are and just nip down to Astingham. 
I don’t think it will be so very painful. Merrill 
never seemed to me to care much for him.” 

“I’ve got a taxi waiting,” he went on, “so I’d 
better not stay any more. Of all forms of wast¬ 
ing money, letting a taxi tick up while it’s stand¬ 
ing still is the silliest.” 

And he was gone. 

Ben’s lips shaped themselves to whistle, but 
no sound came. “It’s lucky for us that mother 
had some nice feelings,” she permitted herself to 
think. 

She called Jan. 

“I’ve got to go down to the country,” she said, 
“and I may stay the night. Tell Miss Marquand 
to open everything and act as if she were me.” 

“No one could do that,” said the loyal Jan. 

“Well, as nearly as possible then,” said Ben. 


158 


ADVISORY BEN 


“This is my address if you want anything 
special,” and she hurried off. 

At the station she sent a telegram to Merrill 
to announce her imminence, and then she settled 
down in the compartment to consider the situa¬ 
tion. 

Poor old Egbert, she thought. What an arid 
life! To a large extent wasted, with the kind of 
waste that is going on on all sides. What did he 
marry for? He thought he was in love, or, at 
any rate, in need of Merrill. But he wasn’t. He 
no sooner acquired her than he forgot her; she 
became furniture; all he wanted was himself and 
the opportunity to get on with his foolish book, 
which didn’t matter to anyone. Everything was 
sacrificed to that; his blood turned to ink; he 
ceased to be interested in actual present-day 
life; his sympathy changed to a pedantic curios¬ 
ity; he gave what was meant for his fellow- 
creatures to a Biblical tribe that had been dead 
for thousands of years. 

And how many other men were like him? 
They didn’t all write about the Hittites, but they 
had their absorbing Hittites all the same, whether 
business Hittites or play Hittites, and so their 
altar promises became scraps of paper and the 
precious hours slipped away. What a muddle! 
What a muddle! 


ADVISORY BEN 


159 


And Merrill? Fortunately she was of a more 
equable nature than so many a neglected wife; 
fortunately she had no great depths, or, at any 
rate, if she had, no man had discovered them. 
Egbert had been lucky in his choice. Many an¬ 
other woman would have taken things into her 
own hands and have secretly saved something 
from the wreck. But Merrill was too light¬ 
hearted, too simple. And now perhaps she would 
marry again—she was only a little over thirty— 
and be happy: marry a plus-four man, with a 
taste for dancing and the theatre, who, if he ever 
thought of the Hittites at all, thought of them as 
a Central African race who made bearers for 
hunters of big game. 

That was Merrill’s right husband, and they 
would have a large house in the country, and 
two or three children, and come to town for the 
season, and if he did any work at all it would be 
purely as a J.P. 

There was nothing to meet Ben at the station, 
and when she reached the vicarage the first thing 
she saw was her unopened telegram on the hall 
table. 

Mrs. Bourne was playing golf, said the maid. 

Poor Merrill, what ought to be done? Ben 
wondered. Was it fair to spoil her game? But, 


160 


ADVISORY BEN 


on the other hand, was it fair to let her go on and 
give a chance to malicious tongues? 

Ben decided to walk to the links, and no sooner 
did she get there and observe Merrill and her 
partner than she realized that in all probability 
the plus-four man had already arrived. 

Merrill, under the solicitous tuition of this tall 
and very good-looking country gentleman, was 
about to dig out the ball with a heavy iron when 
she caught sight of her younger sister. 

At first she could not believe it, and then, 
“Ben, you darling!” she exclaimed, flung away 
the club and was in her arms. 

“Whoever thought of seeing you here!” she 
went on. “But how splendid! Let me introduce 
Captain Andrews.” 

After a few conventional words, the Captain, 
who had tact as well as good looks, said that 
since Ben was there he would ask Mrs. Bourne 
to release him from his engagement to lunch with 
her; nor would he take any refusal. 

For this Ben was very grateful to him, and it 
set him high in her estimation. 

“But I want you to know my sister,” said 
Merrill. 

“And I want to know her,” he said; “but to¬ 
day, I am sure, you have much to talk about. I’ll 
order the car and drive you home.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


161 


It was while Merrill was in the club-house that 
Ben had an opportunity of speaking to the Cap¬ 
tain. 

“That was very thoughtful of you,” she said; 
and she told him the nature of her errand. 

“Good God!” he exclaimed, but in accents, she 
fancied, more of surprise, or even relief, than of 
sorrow. “Good God! I think,” he added, after 
a moment, “I’ll send my shover with you. Per¬ 
haps you will be so kind as to make my apologies 
to your sister,” and he walked away. 

“Is Captain Andrews married?” Ben asked, as 
they whirled along. 

“No,” said Merrill. 

“Does he live near here?” 

“Yes,” said Merrill. “Between Petersfield and 
Midhurst. He’s got a beautiful place. And now 
you darling,” she said, “tell me truly why you 
came down. Much as you love my beaux yeuoc I 
know it wasn’t for them.” 

“It was to*fill them with tears,” said Ben. 

“What do you mean?” Merrill asked anxiously. 
“What has happened?” 

“Egbert,” said Ben. 

“Egbert? Not dead?” said Merrill. 

“Yes,” said Ben. “In America; pneumonia.” 

“Merciful heavens!” Merrill exclaimed. 

Grief and joy can inhabit amicably a very 


162 


ADVISORY BEN 


small house. But in Merrill’s case grief was 
rather more like pity, and joy a consciousness of 
release. Only a dazed consciousness, though, at 
the moment. 

“Poor Egbert, poor old Egbert,” she mur¬ 
mured. “He didn’t have much fun.” And then, 
“Poor Egbert, what a long way to go to die!” 

She was silent for a long while. 

“I suppose I ought to do things,” she said. 

“Of course,” said Ben. “There is so much to 
do. You must write to his relations. No one 
knows but you, I believe. You must write to 
the Bishop about the living. You will have to 
get clothes.” 

“I suppose so,” said Merrill. “Yes, of course, 
clothes.” 

“And you ought to cable to America.” 

“What about?” Merrill asked. 

“Well, what do you want done with—with 
Egbert? Sometimes they embalm-” 

“Oh, no, he must be buried there,” said Merrill. 
“Not here. Dying so far away, he must be buried 
far away. He had no real interest in this place. 
Some day, perhaps, I might go over there and 
see his grave. Where was it?” 

“Minneapolis,” said Ben. 

“Yes, he was to lecture there,” said Merrill. 



ADVISORY BEN 163 

“Some day—oh,” she exclaimed, “I must let 
Captain Andrews know!” 

“He does know,” said Ben. “I told him.” 
Merrill looked at her. “That’s why he sent 
the chauffeur,” she said. “I see.” Her per¬ 
plexity gave way for a moment to a smile. 


164 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXX 

“Say,” said the American, addressing Mr. Jack 
Harford, and stooping to pat that casual trades¬ 
man’s inseparable companion, “is this a dog fan¬ 
cier’s or a book store?” 

“We sell books and water-colours,” said Jack; 
“or, at least, we keep a stock of books. But this 
spaniel belongs to me and is not for sale.” 

“I’m sorry,” said the American. “I was look¬ 
ing for a flea-trap. But what about this ‘Beck 
and Call’ sign. How can I get there? I’ve got 
some questions to ask. Is it a good place?” 

“Very,” said Jack. “The office is run by a 
Miss Staveley, and she seems to give satisfaction. 
But it depends rather on what you want. 
Through the shop and up the stairs.” 

“I’ll try,” said the American. “These chancey 
things often pan out best.” 

He ascended the stairs, and after Jan had, in 
Dolly’s phrase, passed the rule over him, he was 
admitted to Ben. 

“My name’s Barclay Corbet,” he began. “I 
see you solve Domestic Problems, so perhaps you 


ADVISORY BEN 


165 


can solve mine. This is what I’m becking and 
calling about: I want to spend a few weeks in 
real England. Not the England that most of my 
countrymen are shown, but something that you’d 
call essentially ‘old world.’ Don’t mention a 
cathedral,” he added hastily; “I’ve had all the 
cathedrals I want and all the vergers. Don’t 
mention a watering place, or the Dukeries, or 
anything like that. Don’t mention Oxford or 
Cambridge. And above all don’t mention Strat- 
ford-on-Avon. I want retirement. What I want 
is a place where there’s no railway within miles, 
no corrugated iron roofs, no waiters in clawham¬ 
mer coats, but pretty waiting-maids named Kate 
and Lucy instead, and no boys calling winners. 
And I want there to be a saddler in it making 
saddles in the midst of the smell of leather, and a 
churchyard with the graves all crooked and all 
over moss. And spaniels; yes, there must be 
spaniels. And another thing, a rookery. Can 
you do this?” 

Ben furrowed her forehead. 

“I wonder,” she said, “if Shaftesbury would 
do? It’s in Dorset; very old, very quiet and self- 
contained, and high up on a hill like an Italian 
town, like Siena.” 

“That settles it,” said Mr. Corbet. “If it’s 
high on a hill, it’s no good to me. I’ve had all 


166 


ADVISORY BEN 


the climbing I want. And if it’s like anything 
Italian, it can fade away into the back seats. 
I’ve done with macaroni. No,” he went on, 
“think again. Think of something where there’s 
a river to loaf beside and a water mill!” 

“A water mill! Oh, I know,” exclaimed Ben 
—“Bibury!” 

“You seem mighty struck on places ending 
in ‘bury’,” said her client. 

“It was you who insisted on a churchyard,” 
Ben retaliated. 

“So it was,” said the American, “but for aes¬ 
thetic purposes only. Still, tell me about this 
Bibury.” 

“Bibury is a dream,” said Ben. “It’s all grey 
stone, and every house looks as if it grew there. 
But they’re beautiful too, and even the tiniest 
cottages have mullioned windows and delicious 
gables. The barns are like cathedrals—without,” 
she added hastily, “any vergers—and the cattle- 
sheds are like cloisters. It’s in Gloucestershire. 
It’s miles from a station, and there’s a trout 
stream, and—if you value that, but of course you 
don’t—the people still touch their caps and the 
little girls curtsy. And when I was there last 
there certainly weren’t any waiters—only nice 
girls, even if they weren’t named Kate and Lucy. 
But their caps were white. And there are mil- 


ADVISORY BEN 167 

lions of rooks, and if you were very lucky you 
might see a kingfisher.” 

“It’s too good to be true,” said the American. 
“Show it me in the ‘A.B.C.’ ” 

“I can’t,” said Ben. “It isn’t there. You have 
to go to Cirencester.” 

“Better and better,” said the American. 
“Places not in the ‘A.B.C.’ have a special appeal 
for me. And bury or no bury, I’ll go there. Is 
the food good?” 

“Didn’t I say it was a fishing inn?” Ben re¬ 
plied. 

“Well, young lady,” said the American, 
“you’ve put me wise to what sounds like a very 
good thing. Tell me how I pay you.” 

“I don’t think you do,” said Ben. “Not this 
time. You must come again and let me do some¬ 
thing more practical for you.” 

“It’s a bet,” said the American. “I’m very 
much obliged to you, young lady. You’re the 
brightest thing I’ve struck in this country yet. 
Au revoir! We shall meet again.” 

On his way through “The Booklovers’ Rest” 
he paused to ask Jack if he knew a place called 
Bibury. 

“Know it?” said Jack. “I should think I do. 
It’s one of the most beautiful spots in England.” 

“Bully,” said the American; but he had suffi- 


168 


ADVISORY BEN 


cient native scepticism to ask if the bright girl 
upstairs did not have an interest in the inn. 

“Because she’s been recommending it?” Jack 
asked. 

“I just wondered,” said the American. “No 
offence,” he added quickly, as Jack’s face dark¬ 
ened. 

“It’s just as well you said that,” Jack replied, 
“or by jingo-” His fists relaxed. 

“Now look here, young man,” said the Ameri¬ 
can, “forgive me. I meant no harm. And I like 
you for your feelings. I’ll insure my life and 
come here again.” 

A few weeks or so later Mr. Barclay Corbet, 
who was as good as his word, was again an¬ 
nounced by Jan. 

“Miss Beck,” he said, greeting Ben, “I’ve 
come to thank you for your advice about an Eng¬ 
lish village and to ask you to help me some more. 
But this time it’s a real business proposition. I’ve 
bought Bibury Grange and I want you to furnish 
it for me as a place should be furnished and find 
me some good servants. Will you?” 

Ben collected her startled wits. “Of course,” 
she said. “When do you want to go in?” 

“In three weeks to the minute,” said Mr. Cor¬ 
bet, looking at his watch. 

“Three weeks!” Ben gasped. 



ADVISORY BEN 


169 


“Yes. I can’t wait any longer. I’m going 
over to New York for a day or two to settle some 
affairs, and I want when I return in exactly 
three weeks to find the house ready for me to live 
in. I want to go straight there and settle down 
and be happy. Will you do it?” 

“But-” Ben was beginning. 

“No ‘buts,’ Miss Beck,” said the American. 
“Here’s a plan of the house, every room meas¬ 
ured up. Take it and get busy. And here’s a 
cheque that will more than cover everything, and 
the bank is ready to let you have more on your 
signature, if you’ll kindly write one out for me 
for reference. I haven’t a minute now. The 
signature, please.” 

He rose. 

“But I don’t know your taste,” said Ben. 

“It’s yours,” said the American; “or rather, I 
should like it to be.” 

“Do you want a butler and a footman or only 
women?” Ben called after him. 

“Nice women, named Kate and Lucy and Alice 
and things like that,” he replied, as he left the 
room. 

“And what about wall-paper?” she remem¬ 
bered to ask at the top of her voice. 

“White distemper,” he called back, and was 
gone. 



170 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXXI 

With plenty of money one can acquire most of 
the less important things of life; and Ben was not 
stinted there. So we had three terrific weeks. I 
say “we” because I was in it. 

We went to Bibury that evening, with an ex¬ 
pert from one of the big furnishers, and early 
the next morning we were busy starting the 
work. Then we hurried back, with a full plan of 
house and garden, and began to compile cata¬ 
logues of necessities. There are printed lists to 
be had from the big furnishers, and to these we 
added every kind of minute accessory. Ben 
wanted to leave no loophole for criticism what¬ 
ever. Ten times in a night I would wake up and 
think of something that might be forgotten and 
jot it down; and if I woke up ten times, Ben prob¬ 
ably woke up twenty, for this commission was 
her great chance. 

I thought in this way of: 

Nut-crackers 
Goloshes 
Pepper mill 


ADVISORY BEN 


171 


Pond’s Extract 
Court Plaster 
Order for newspapers 
Garden seats 
Fishing tackle 
Cigars and cigarettes 
Lavender sachets 
Paper clips 
Notepaper die. 

Ben was taking Mr. Barclay Corbet at his 
word and making her own taste control the whole 
scheme. This meant grey carpets and rose cur¬ 
tains, all of which had to be put in hand instantly. 
Then there were rush mattings and linos and 
rugs and blinds. Everything was new: there was 
no time to hunt for the old; but it was the best 
new, and we saw that every drawer opened easily. 
Fortunately two of the essentials of an Ameri¬ 
can’s house that take most time to supply—cen¬ 
tral heating and the telephone—were there al¬ 
ready. 

When it came to decorative inessentials we 
were cautious. Pictures, for example. It is very 
difficult to buy pictures for other people, as 
every one who has ever been in a hotel sitting- 
room will agree. Yet there were those great 
bare, white distempered walls. 


172 


ADVISORY BEN 


The pictures being an acute problem, Ben, 
with deep cunning, left them to me. 

“But I haven’t seen your Barclay Corbet,” I 
said. “A man can be anything in the world until 
you’ve seen him. How can I choose? Does he 
look like a hunting man?” 

“No.” 

“That shuts out sets of coloured Alkens, which 
might be just the thing for such a place: Aiken, 
Sartorius, Ben Marshall, all those fine old horsy 
fellows. Does he suggest exotic tastes?” I 
asked. 

“No.” 

“That’s puts a stopper on Japanese prints—as 
a rule such a safe line! And oil paintings would 
cost too much. And mezzotints of beautiful 
women, after Reynolds and Gainsborough, also 
dear, might not please him.” 

It was then that Mr. Harford came to the 
rescue. “If he likes Bibury so much,” he said, “it 
follows that he must like Old England. I’ll 
frame up a lot of our water-colours—De Wint, 
Birket Foster, William Callow, Tom Collier, 
David Cox, Varley—and if he likes them he can 
keep them, and if not I’ll take them back. And 
now I come to think of it, he wanted to buy my 
dog, the swine! Called him a flea-trap! I’ve got 


ADVISORY BEN 173 

some engravings of spaniels and setters after 
Stubbs—I’ll hang those in the hall.” 

We settled the books in the same way. A cer¬ 
tain number were decided upon without any 
question, such as the “Encyclopaedia Britannica,” 
Dickens and Thackeray, and then a mixed collec¬ 
tion was put together by Mr. St. Quentin: to be 
retained or returned. All were supplied by that 
enterprising firm “The Booklovers’ Rest” on the 
principle, as Ben said, of keeping Mr. Corbet in 
the family. 

The few vases and bowls that were necessary 
were simpler: there are so many non-committal 
shapes and colours now. 

Mr. Harford did not confine himself to sup¬ 
plying the pictures and books, but himself super¬ 
intended their arrangement in the house, and 
when I went down to Bibury for a last look 
round two or three days before the time limit was 
up, in order to have the chance of supplying any 
last-minute deficiencies that might occur to any 
of us, I found that pleasant young gentleman 
among the people staying at the inn. Although 
a second-hand book seller, he seemed to have 
views on everything else too, together with a 
knack of getting things done, while in addition he 
found time to throw a fly now and then over the 
rapid waters of the Coin. 


174 


ADVISORY BEN 


“Mr. Harford has been very kind,” Ben said. 
“I’m sure he’s needed in London, for Mr. St. 
Quentin has sent him several telegrams; but he 
wouldn’t go baek so long as there was any bother 
here.” 

We went over the house together, and it was 
undoubtedly an achievement. Between us we 
had, I believe, covered the ground; Mr. Harford, 
with diabolical thoroughness and perhaps a touch 
of malice, having actually provided the library 
with a cuspidor. 

The time being ripe, Ben and I returned to 
London—Mr. Harford, having given in to his 
partner’s S.O.S.’s the day before—for Ben pre¬ 
ferred not to be present when her client arrived. 
She argued that a house may be described as 
more ready to live in if there is no one to wel¬ 
come you but your own people. But she left a 
little note expressing her hope that she had suc¬ 
ceeded in her task, and adding, “There is a cork¬ 
screw in every room.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


175 


XXXII 

It was, I imagine, the presence of the cuspidor 
which tickled Mr. Barclay Corbet’s fancy and 
provoked him to the series of telegrams which he 
despatched to Ben. They came at intervals for a 
day or so. I can remember a few, with the 
replies: 

Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London: 

Please explain curious article by library fire-place. 

Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury: 

Sorry if I have been over-zealous. 


Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London: 
Do not seem to have any bellows. 

Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury: 
Look in oak chest in hall. 

Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London: 
Gardener clamouring for secateur. 

Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury: 
In cupboard in summer-house. 




176 


ADVISORY BEN 


Corbet Bibury to Beckancal London: 

Cannot find any shaving paper. 

Beckancal London to Corbet Bibury: 

Tear up “Tim«s.” 

And then came Mr. Barclay Corbet in person 
to express his absolute satisfaction and to make 
Ben and her staff a handsome present, and then 
to spend some hours downstairs in fixing up his 
shelves properly. 

“Whoever thought I wanted an ‘Encyclo¬ 
paedia Britannica,’ ” he said, “is the world’s worst 
clairvoyant. What I want is the works of A. 
Trollope. They’re good to read and they’re 
good to send you to sleep.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


177 


XXXIII 

Alicia, better dressed than usual, with a new 
vanity bag and a rather dashing hat, had been 
seated in Ben’s room for many minutes before she 
could bring herself to be explicit and admit that 
she had received an offer of marriage. From a 
widower, a retired ironmaster, living at Hove. 
In one of the avenues, she added; with his sister: 
a horrid woman. They had met at a seance, for 
he, too, was interested in spiritualism and was in 
communication with his late wife. At least he 
had tried to be, but that lady had refused to be 
communicative because, she said, there was some¬ 
one antipathetic to her in the room. 

“You, I suppose,” said Ben, in her blunt way. 

“I don’t know why you should say so,” said 
Alicia, hurt. 

“I don’t see why she should rejoice in your 
presence, anyway,” Ben replied. “It can’t be 
much fun for dead wives, out of it for ever, 
watching their husbands preparing for a second 
marriage.” 

“That’s just it,” said Alicia, with a groan. 


178 


ADVISORY BEN 


“What do you mean?” Ben asked. 

“Nothing,” said Alicia, and was silent for quite 
a long while. 

“Do you want to marry him?” Ben asked. 

“I don’t dislike him,” said Alicia, “but it is 
very sudden. I had never expected anything of 
the kind to happen, or indeed thought about it. 
As you know, I was anticipating a lonely life 
dedicated to the boys. And if it weren’t for the 
boys I shouldn’t consider it now, for an instant. 
But of course it would be good for them. He is 
so fond of them, and a man is a better influence 
than a weak, fond mother.” 

“So you will say yes?” said Ben. 

“I don’t know, oh, I don’t know,” said Alicia, 
dismally, with a glance at her pocket mirror. 
“You see,” she added, “there’s Bertrand. He 
ought to be told.” 

“I thought you said that he knew everything 
about you,” said Ben. 

“So I have thought,” said Alicia. “But he 
ought to be told formally. And that can be done 
only through the medium, and I don’t want her to 
know. I’ve never liked her, apart from her call¬ 
ing. Not a lady, by a long way. Not even the 
third drawer! But if Bertrand knew, wouldn’t 
he have let me know? Some little message of 
encouragement? Surely! But no, nothing. I 


ADVISORY BEN 


179 


used to feel so certain of him, but now it’s all 
changed. Do you think I’m becoming less 
psychic or that he’s cross?” 

“I hope you’re becoming less psychic,” said 
Ben. “You oughtn’t to marry retired iron-mas¬ 
ters and be psychic too. Bertrand was a very 
just man,” she continued. “He couldn’t be so 
unreasonable as to wish you to be deprived of the 
company and consolation of a second husband.” 

“I’m not sure,” said Alicia. “I feel that he 
counts on me, and I may lose him if I marry 
again.” 

“I suppose, to a certain extent, you would,” 
said Ben. 

“You think so?” Alicia asked eagerly. 

“Yes, I think you would,” said Ben. “It’s 
only natural. And I think if you married you 
would want to, too.” 

“Want to lose Bertrand?” Alicia asked in 
amazement. 

“Yes. It would be very awkward to have 
both.” 

“I suppose it would,” Alicia admitted. 

“And besides,” said Ben, “after all, you may 
have been mistaken about conversing with 
Bertrand at all. The whole thing may be an 
hallucination, proceeding from yourself. The 
wish the father to the thought, you know.” 


180 


ADVISORY BEN 


“Do you think so?” Alicia asked with some 
excitement. “Do you think I have imagined it 
all and Bertrand and I have had no communi¬ 
cation?” 

“I think it quite possible,” said Ben. “You’ll 
never be able to prove it, of course. Anyway, 
from what I remember of Bertrand, he would 
want you to be happy, and he would like his boys 
to be looked after.” 

“You think he would?” Alicia asked. 

“I’m certain of it,” said Ben. 

“Then you would marry Mr. Redforth?” 

“If I liked him sufficiently, and trusted him, 
yes,” said Ben. “In any case I should not let the 
vague possibility of Bertrand’s disapproval 
deprive me of the chance of new happiness.” 

“Ben, you’re a darling!” said Alicia, kissing 
her impulsively. “I’ll do it.” 

“And what about Mr. Redforth’s sister?” Ben 
asked. 

“Oh, she must make her own arrangements,” 
said Alicia. 


ADVISORY BEN 


181 


XXXIV 

Walking in Kensington Gardens xo-day whom 
should I meet but Ben’s Uncle Paul, with his 
latest yacht on his arm; and he seemed almost to 
welcome the opportunity of sitting down for a 
while to chat. For we are not the most intimate 
of acquaintances; not because of any inherent 
antipathy, but because of an acute observer 
would probably detect in each of us a slight 
suspicion of the other—a tincture of jealousy— 
each of us wishing to be the nearest and dearest 
among Ben’s middle-aged friends. Her capture 
of a young man we should accept not with joy 
but with resignation—for it would be according 
to nature—but we should hate to see her adding 
another friend of fifty to her retinue. 

We began, as we usually do when we meet, by 
mentioning her. It is a sign that true intimacy is 
lacking when a third person is called in as an ice¬ 
pick. And how often it happens! 

“Have you seen Ben lately?” I asked, hoping 
fervently that the advantage was with me. 

“She came in to see me last evening,” said 


182 


ADVISORY BEN 


Uncle Paul, with all his usual difficulty of utter¬ 
ance, and my heart fell. (But of course relatives 
don’t count. Relatives are in the line of least 
resistance. The real test is when a stranger is 
made a friend of.) 

“How do you feel about the business ?” Uncle 
Paul asked. “Do you think it is really thriving? 
Do you think it is too great a strain?” 

“I don’t think so,” I said. “And she does it 
so well; she’s so happy doing it that a little strain 
wouldn’t matter.” 

“I went into the book shop underneath the 
other day,” said Uncle Paul, “all unbeknown to 
Ben, to have a look at those young men. I sup¬ 
pose you’ve seen them?” 

I had seen them often, confound them! “Yes,” 
I said, “once or twice.” 

“And how do they strike you?” Uncle Paul 

inquired. “Because, you know, I suppose-” 

He stopped for a while. “Well, I wonder what 
you think of them,” he said. 

“I am sorry to say,” I replied, “that I don’t see 
anything very wrong with either.” 

He looked at me through his highly magni¬ 
fying gold-rimmed glasses. Then he laughed. 

“I felt a little like that myself,” he said. “But 
we mustn’t be dogs in the manger: old men like 
us.” 



ADVISORY BEX 183 

(Not so old as that, all the same! He must 
speak for himself.) 

“I could wish that the quiet one had more 
legs,” said Uncle Paul. “But I suppose that 
his disability is all in his favour with such a born 
manager as Ben. Would he be your choice ?” 

“I don’t know,” I said. “I sometimes think I 
should prefer her to take the jolly one. And I 
like a man to be complete.” 

“The jolly one might get on her nerves after 
a while,” said Uncle Paul. “High spirits and 
facetiousness can ruin a marriage almost as easily 
as egotism and irony.” 

“I don’t think Harford’s humour is as virulent 
as that,” I said. “I saw a lot of him at Bibury. 
I thought his gaiety rather attractive. He has 
some brains, too. His principal fault—and I 
wish I could share it—is that he finds life an 
adventure and a joke. But he will be cured of 
such heresies as those all too soon. Nothing so 
enrages the Powers above as to see anyone down 
here daring to be like that. And they have all 
the weapons of chastisement and correction so 
handy!” 

“Well, I shall put my money on the lame one,” 
said Uncle Paul. 

“But why should she marry either?” I asked. 


184 ADVISORY BEN 

“She does not strike me as so inevitably a marry¬ 
ing girl.” 

“Geographical conditions largely,” said Uncle 
Paul. “There they all are, so absolutely on the 
spot.” 

“I should have thought they would be jealous,” 
I said. 

“I’ve no doubt they are,” said Uncle Paul, 
who seemed to me to know far too much for a 
stammering recluse given to Round Pond navi¬ 
gation. “And if one of them is not accepted, or 
both aren’t refused, pretty soon, ‘The Book* 
lovers’ Rest’ will dissolve partnership.” 

“As bad as that?” I remarked. 

“I think so,” he said. “It’s astonishing what a 
disturbing element in the lives of two young men 
one young woman can be.” 

“Yes,” I said, “and it’s more astonishing when 
it’s such a sensible girl as Ben, who would not be 
bothered to make, mischief with anyone, but 
merely wants to go her own way and be busy. 
But what does Nature care about ‘The Becks and 
Calls’? Nature has only two ideas in her obsti¬ 
nate old head. One is that people should fall in 
love and become parents, and the other that they 
should grow old.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


185 


XXXV 

“You may think us very foolish,” said the tall 
man, as he seated himself. 

“Or very greedy,” said his wife. 

“But we want some advice about food, and 
seeing your signboard, which reminded me of the 
inn my father used to keep in Helmsley,” the 
man continued, “we thought we’d come in and 
ask. But,” he said, “I never thought to find a^ 
beautiful young lady like you, miss. You are 
‘miss,’ I take it?” 

“Yes,” said Ben, laughing. 

“Somehow,” said the tall man, “our difficulty 
is more one to put to an older woman. But it’s 
like this. My wife and I are just back from New 
Zealand, where we’ve lived ever since I was 
twenty. I’ve done very well, and we’re having a 
look round London. We’re staying at the Hotel 
Splendid, you know. Everything bang up. 
Private suite. Gold clock under a glass shade.” 

“Which doesn’t go,” said his wife. 

“Steam heat,” he continued, “that dries up all 
my tobacco. Everything perfect, in fact. But 


186 


ADVISORY REX 


we can’t get the food we like. You see, miss, 
we’re very simple folk, and we want the old- 
fashioned things. All the way home we have 
been thinking and talking about the things we 
would eat, and now that we’re here we can’t get 
them. They serve them, but they’re not right. 
Sausages and mashed—I know just how they 
ought to taste; but at the ‘Splendid’ they taste of 
nothing. And lots of things I used to be so fond 
of at home they don’t serve at all. I can’t get a 
pork-pie—‘porch-peen,’ as we used to call it. 
When I asked the head waiter for cow’s heel, I 
thought he’d throw a fit. Batter pudding, boiled 
onions, apple dumplings; it’s no good, they can’t 
make them to taste of anything, or they can’t 
make them at all. They’ve got such a horror of 
the flavour of apple that they smother it with 
lemon and cloves. Xow, miss, couldn’t you tell 
us of some smaller places—we don’t mind how 
small or how common—where we could get some 
of the old homely stuff? My poor wife here is 
wasting away.” 

“Oh, John, it’s you that want them much more 
than I do,” said his wife. 

“I don’t know much about food myself,” said 
Ben, “but I’ve heard my father say that there are 
certain things that no restaurant can ever do as 
well as home cooks. lie says that no restaurant 


ADVISORY BEN 


187 


can make bread sauce or horse-radish sauce prop¬ 
erly. No restaurant can be trusted with mush¬ 
rooms. My advice to you,” she continued, 
“would be to cut out London altogether, unless 
you were set on it, and go either to a country inn 
or to a farm, where the milk isn’t watered and the 
cream hasn’t any boric acid, and the eggs are this 
morning’s, and things taste as they should. 
London never gets anything really fresh. Why 
don’t you go to your own Yorkshire?” she asked. 

“We shall later,” said the tall man. “But we 
want to see London first; and meanwhile we’re 
starving.” 

“Then you must go into lodgings,” said Ben, 
“where there is a good plain cook.” 

“John is so fond of the ‘Splendid,’ ” said his 
wife. “He’s always w r anted to stay in that kind 
of hotel and waste his money on red carpets and 
sit in lounges and watch the actresses.” 

“Then stay at the ‘Splendid,’ ” said Ben, “but 
eat at simpler places. It would be amusing to 
pay five pounds for a bed and five shillings for 
meals. The management.ought to know about it 
—it might do them good. But wait a minute,” 
she went on, “I’ve just thought of something.” 

She rang the bell and Dolly entered. 

“We want your advice,” she said. “Do you 


188 


ADVISORY BEN 


know of any eating-houses where old-fashioned 
food is well cooked and tastes like itself?” 

“Plenty, miss,” said Dolly. “There’s a place 
in the Hampstead Road with a placard up that 
says ‘Everything as Nice as Mother Makes It.’ ” 

The New Zealander slapped his thigh. “Now 
you’re talking!” he cried. “Does it really say 
that? That’s what we’re looking for: ‘Every¬ 
thing as Nice as Mother Makes It’—my! but 
that’s a great sentence; that’s literature. Where 
is this place, boy?” 

“In the Hampstead Road,” said Dolly. “But 
there are others too, very likely. And I can tell 
them about sausages, too, miss, and tripe and 
onions. Famous places. And stewed eels, miss.” 

Ben shuddered. 

“This is great!” said her client. “Now, look 
here, miss,” he continued, “this seems to me to be 
a bright boy. Let us have him for a few days to 
show us round, and name your own price. He’ll 
take us to the places we want to see, like the 
Tower and the Zoo and Westminster Abbey, and 
he’ll show us where to eat.” 

“What do you say, Dolly?” Ben asked. 

Dolly was obviously flattered; but he had the 
business at heart. 

“I was wondering if I could be spared,” he 
replied. 


ADVISORY BEN 189 

“Well, if you can be, what do you think your 
time is worth ?” Ben inquired. 

“Including fares,” he said, after some thought, 
“and taking into consideration the distress and 
upheaval caused here by my absence, fifteen bob 
a day, exclusive of lunch.” 

“We’ll pay that,” said the New Zealander, 
cheerfully, and the bargain was struck. Dolly 
had become, for a week, a courier. 

Later that same afternoon, Ben told me—it 
was one of her mixed-grill days, as she called 
them, when every one was odd—a plainly dressed 
young woman asked to see Miss Staveley on very 
pressing private business, and was admitted. 

“You won’t know me, miss,” she said, “but my 
mother was your Jane.” 

“Jane?” replied Ben. “You don’t mean Jane 
Bunce?” 

“Yes,” said the girl. “The one who was with 
the Colonel and his lady for so long and only left 
to be married.” 

“Of course,” said Ben. “We are all very fond 
of her. I can remember her perfectly, although 
I was so small. I hope she is all right.” 

“Yes,” said the girl. “But father-” 

“Tell me,” said Ben. __ 

“It’s like this,” said the girl. “Father’s been 



190 


ADVISORY BEN 


ill now for months and months, and somehow 
mother heard about you setting up here as a kind 
of advice-giver. And she said ‘You go along to 
Miss Ben’s and ask her. I’m sure she wouldn’t 
object, for old sake’s sake.’ ” 

“Tell me,” said Ben again. 

“It’s like this,” the girl resumed. “Father’s 
been ill for months and months, and you know 
what sick folks are, how they get their minds set 
on things? Well, he sits in a chair at the window 
watching the motor-cars go by. We’re in Peck- 
ham, you know, and motor-cars go by all the 
time, and even more on Sundays, and—well, miss 
—he’s never been in one in his life. In motor- 
buses, yes, but never in a car. Motor-buses don’t 
count. They’ve got solid tyres; they’re public. 
But a shiny private car with rubber tyres, all his 
own for the time being—he’s never been in one 
of those; and he sits there at the window and it’s 
his only wish. But you see, miss, he can’t ever do 
it now, because he’s that weak, and the doctor 
only gives him another two or three days.” 

“Well?” said Ben. 

“Well,” the girl went on, dabbing her eyes, 
“well, mother told me to come and ask you if you 
think it would be very wrong—too extravagant, 
I mean—if we were to give him a motor funeral? 


ADVISORY BEN 191 

As a surprise, miss, of course? What do you 
think, miss? What may I tell mother?” 

“Give her my love,” said Ben, “and tell her 
most certainly to do it. And tell her to come and 
see me when the funeral’s over.” 


192 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXXVI 

“May I come in?” asked the bronzed, soldierly- 
looking man, as he opened the door of Ben’s 
room, having brought his handsome face and easy 
charm to break down, with their usual success, 
Jan’s opposition. 

“My dear Cecil!” Ben exclaimed, rushing into 
her brother’s arms, “what brings you here? I 
thought you were in Paris.” 

“So we were,” he said, “but I had to leave in 
self-defence. Yvonne was ruining me. We 
were to have stayed there a month, but I should 
never have got away at all if I hadn’t put out all 
my strength and insisted on coming now. 

“The clothes that child buys!” he continued. 
“We’re heading straight for Queer Street. I see 
that you solve domestic problems; well, if anyone 
ever asks you for advice as to marrying a for¬ 
eigner, tell them not to. The answer is in the 
negative. Foreigners are all right in their place, 
but don’t marry them.” 

“Poor Cecil!” said Ben. 

“No, it isn’t as bad as that,” he said. “Yvonne 


ADVISORY BEN 


193 


and I get on very well. But she’s a foreigner, 
and once a foreigner, always a foreigner. They 
never get to understand. I can’t make her realize 
that I’m not rich. She thinks that all English¬ 
men must be rich. She has plenty of relations in 
the French Army—naturally—and they are 
poor enough, but an English officer must neces¬ 
sarily be wealthy. Nothing that I can say or do 
has any effect. I show her my accounts; but I 
might just as well be exhibiting a bridge score. 
She has no idea of money or figures whatever. 
And if by any chance a glimmering that I may be 
telling the truth enters her brain, she says ‘Ah, 
but your father is rich. Some day he will die— 
he is an old man—and then you will be rich too.’ 
They’re so practical, the French. They go 
straight for what they want, and what she wants 
is her father-in-law’s death. But, as a matter of 
fact, as I have told her, judging by the gov¬ 
ernor’s general appearance to-day, he is far less 
likely to peg out than I am. He’s as skittish as 
a two-year-old on stepmother’s money; and he 
and Yvonne are as thick as thieves. They’re at 
some function or other together to-day—Rane- 
lagh, I believe. Thank God you can’t buy clothes 
at Ranelagh!” 

“No,” said Ben, “but you can see them and get 


194 ADVISORY BEN 

envious and plot terrific campaigns for to-mor¬ 
row.” 

Cecil groaned. 

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I don’t see 
what I’ve gained by bringing her to London. 
There’s a Rue de la Paix here too! The old joke 
had it that first you paid and then you rued, but I 
don’t see how I can pay. It’s her only fault, but 
it’s deadly. I can’t put a notice in the papers dis¬ 
owning her bills, because I’m not that sort, but 
it’s getting very serious, and if something doesn’t 
happen or someone doesn’t leave me a fortune, I 
shall be up against it. When you see her, Ben, 
do try and make her understand.” 

“Of course I’ll try,” said Ben. “What a pity 
you haven’t any children! If she had something 
like that to occupy her, she’d forget about dress.” 

“Not Yvonne!” said Cecil. If Yvonne had 
been the old woman who lived in a shoe, she’d 
have had a different dress to do every whipping 
in.” 

“Doesn’t she read?” Ben asked. 

“She lies on the sofa with a book,” said Cecil, 
“but she’s not a reader. She’s at heart a manne¬ 
quin,; but she’s a darling too,” he added hastily. 
“Don’t think I’m not in love with her still. I am. 
I adore her. But heavens! she’s extravagant: 
I’ve had to give up polo entirely because of it. 


ADVISORY BEN 


195 


She doesn’t know it, but I have. I pretended I’d 
strained my back.” 

That evening Ben and Yvonne met at Colonel 
Staveley’s. 

“But, my dear Ben,” said Yvonne, in her 
pretty broken English, “you would not ’ave me 
shabbee?” 

“That would be impossible,” said Ben. “But 
poor old Cecil isn’t rich, you know.” 

“Ah!” said Yvonne, giving Ben a pat with 
delicate ringed hands, “ ’e ’ave spoke with you 
about me. And you say T will defend my big 
brozzer against this—this—so naughty butter¬ 
fly?’ Is it not so?” 

“Cecil adores you,” said Ben. “I wish you had 
some children.” 

Yvonne’s large brown eyes filled with tears. 

“And I,” she said. “Always I think of it. 
But le bon Dieu, ’E say no.” 


196 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXXVII 

Not long after the close of the Barclay Corbet 
episode Mr. Harford waylaid Ben as she passed 
through the shop. 

“I was wondering,” he said, “if you would 
break a chop with Soul and me this evening? 
Anywhere you like?” 

Ben agreed. 

“You shall not be restricted to a chop,” said 
Jack. “Order anything in season or out of it. 
I’m rich to-day. I sold a lot of things to another 
Yank. They’re the book seller’s friends! Pat’s 
at Leamington at a book sale—and I flatter 
myself he’ll be surprised when he comes back.” 

“There are two ways of being surprised,” said 
Ben, remembering the incident of the imperfect 
copy. 

“That’s a very nasty one,” said Mr. Harford. 
“I credited you with a shorter memory. But the 
insult shall be washed out in red wine, or even, if 
you say the word, in the yellow and effervescing 
juices of Epernay or Rheims. Money is no 


ADVISORY BEN 197 

object. Consider me this evening as a Quaritch, 
or even a Rosenbach.” 

“As a matter of fact,” said Ben, “I am in need 
of a particularly good dinner, for I have had a 
trying day. More than one thing has happened 
to tire me, and my last client—or would-be client 
—did more than tire, she humiliated me.” 

“ ‘How come?’ ” asked Jack, who had added 
that detestable transatlantic locution to his vocab¬ 
ulary, chiefly with the meritorious if frivolous 
purpose of exasperating his partner. 

“A very offensive woman called half an hour 
ago in a motor-car many yards long—you may 
have noticed her—to ask me to make arrange¬ 
ments to take her little Peter out for a walk three 
times every day while she is away in Paris,” said 
Ben. “I was very angry and refused.” 

“Is Peter her little boy?” Jack asked. 

“Little boy!” said Ben. “Nothing so unim¬ 
portant. It’s her Pekinese. When I refused she 
was furious. She almost accused me of being an 
impostor. She said that my business was to 
solve domestic problems and that no domestic 
problem was so acute as the exercising of dogs.” 

“I wish I’d known,” said Mr. Harford. “I 
saw her go out. If I’d known, I should have 
offered her some suitable books: ‘Self Help’ 


198 


ADVISORY BEN 


by Smiles, or ‘It’s Never Too Late to Mend/ 
The—the-” 

“Hush!” said Ben. “People who hang out 
signs can’t be choosers.” 

“Now that we are firmly entrenched in this 
corner,” said Mr. Harford, after they had fin¬ 
ished their soup, “I’ve got a proposition to lay 
before you. I was useful at Bibury, wasn’t I?” 

“Very,” said Ben. 

“I helped in bucking the men up and getting 
things done?” 

“Very,” said Ben. 

“And you don’t dislike me?” 

“Not particularly,” said Ben. 

“Well,” said Mr. Harford, “what I was think¬ 
ing is that you and I might do very well in part¬ 
nership.” 

Ben flushed. 

“No,” he said quickly. “I don’t mean what you 
think I mean—at any rate not at the moment. 
But you’re not engaged, are you?” 

“No,” said Ben. 

“Thank Heaven!” said Mr. Harford fer¬ 
vently. “But look here, Miss Staveley, I swear 
I didn’t ask you here to ask you that. It was 
sprung on me. I swear I didn’t. You believe 
me, won’t you?” 

Ben expressed her belief. 



ADVISORY BEN 


199 


“When I said ‘partnership/ ” he resumed, “I 

meant business partnership, although- When 

I said partnership I meant business partnership. 
Because it seems to me that you and I could do 
a lot of things together very profitably. You 
could get this kind of commission again—old 
Corbet is probably singing your praises all over 
the place to other impulsive and rich Americans, 
and that will mean business—and I could act as 
your overseer.” 

“But what about ‘The Booklovers’ Rest’?” 
Ben asked. 

“Well, Pat would run that; or, if need be, I’d 
retire. You know, Miss Staveley, speaking in 
strict confidence, I don’t believe I’m a born book 
seller. Honest, I don’t.” 

Ben laughed. “What a wonderful discovery 
to have made!” she said. 

“But,” he went on, quite gravely, “I do believe 
I have a flair for getting the best out of people 
under me.” 

“There won’t always be a trout stream,” said 
Ben. 

“Now you’re making fun of me,” he said. 
“I’m really serious. I feel all tied up and con¬ 
gested in that shop among mouldy books. It’s 
all right for Pat—he’s a literary cove, and his one 
desire is to read books and write them.” 



200 


ADVISORY BEN 


“Does he want to write?” Ben asked. “I didn’t 
know that.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Harford; “that’s his one 
ambition. But he can’t afford to. He has to 
make a living. If he were rich he’d chuck book 
selling to-morrow and take to authorship; and 
he’d be jolly good too. I’d have my money in the 
business whatever happened. My mother is 
always good for more. But what do you say?” 

“Well,” said Ben, “I can’t say anything very 
definite. We must wait till another Mr. Barclay 
Corbet comes along and then we might make 
some arrangement; but I think to talk of—of 
partnership is rather premature.” 

“But you don’t hate me?” Mr. Harford asked 
anxiously. 

“I said I didn’t,” Ben replied. 

“I wish you could see my mother,” he said. 
“She’s splendid. But she lives rather a long way 
off—at Laycock. I suppose you wouldn’t come 
down for a week-end? It is a delicious place, a 
little like Bibury, as a matter of fact. All grey 
too. Would you?” 

“I don’t see how I could,” said Ben. 

“No,” said Mr. Harford. “I was afraid not.” 

He left her at her door. 

She gave him her hand. 


ADVISORY BEN 


201 


“Good evening, O’Reilly, 

“You are looking glum,” 

she sang. 

“No wonder,” he said, and turned away. 

Ben stood at the door long enough to see him 
stoop down and pat Soul’s head. 


202 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXXVIII 

On Ben’s desk lay a long envelope addressed to 
Miss Staveley in an unknown hand. Opening it 
she found the following fantasy: 

THE INTERVIEW 

I dreamed that I went to Heaven. I wasn’t 
dead; I went there on a mission to interview God 
for a paper. 

“He will be quite easy,” the editor assured me. 
“In fact, He will like it; it will be a new experi¬ 
ence. Every one secretly likes being interviewed, 
no matter what they say to the contrary, and God 
will like it too. I’m told He’s very human.” 

This was an odd dream for me, because I’ve 
never been a journalist; but if dreams weren’t 
odd we shouldn’t remember them. 

I knocked at the door and St. Peter opened 
it: an old man like a Tintoretto portrait with a 
halo. It was the first real halo I had ever seen 
and I looked at it more than at its wearer. It 
had no visible fastening, but always remained in 
position, about three inches above the head, not 


ADVISORY BEN 


203 


exactly shining but luminous. At night they 
must be very effective—if there is any night in 
Heaven. I wish I had asked. I wish now that I 
had asked heaps of things I didn’t ask. Next 
time I shall make a list; but then there will be no 
next time. 

Of course I don’t mean that I should have 
troubled God about these trifles; I should have 
found one of the young angels who were every¬ 
where and asked him; or I should have sent for 
one of my friends who died in the War. . . . 

Should I? I wonder if I should have 
dared. . . . 

Meanwhile St. Peter waits. “What do you 
want?” he asked. 

I handed him my card with the name of the 
paper on it. 

“God perhaps would grant me an interview?” 
I said. “I was sent here for the purpose.” 

St. Peter looked more than surprised. 

“My editor,’* I said, “seemed confident that I 
should be admitted.” 

“Who is your editor?” said St. Peter. “Do we 
know him here ?” 

“I should doubt it,” I replied. 

“Well, I’ll see,” he said, “but it’s all very 
unusual and irregular. You’d better tell your 
leonid to wait.” 


204 


ADVISORY BEN 


He carefully locked the door again, with me 
just inside it, and shuffled away. He was clearly 
irritated. 

After a while he returned. 

“It’s very surprising,” he said, “but God will 
see you. He seemed quite pleased about it. I 
don’t know what Heaven’s coming to. Person¬ 
ally, I’m against every kind of publicity. The 
emphasis laid by a fellow-disciple on one or two 
unfortunate moments in my own life has been a 
source of grief to me ever since. This way, 
please, and remember that the interview is per¬ 
mitted only on condition that no leading ques¬ 
tions are asked. Nothing as to the reason for the 
creation or anything like that, for example. A 
quiet talk merely; no excitement.” 

How I came into the Presence I cannot 
remember; but suddenly I was with God, just 
ourselves. Nor did I feel frightened. 

But St. Peter’s warning about leading ques¬ 
tions made it difficult for me. Of course those 
were what I wanted to ask, and I remember 
thinking how annoyed my editor would be that I 
had paid any attention to a doorkeeper. The 
whole business of interviewers is to be superior to 
doorkeepers. But then I am not a journalist; I 
have quite a lot of sensitiveness; and I could not 
bring myself to disregard the old saint, who, after 


ADVISORY BEN 


205 


all, was only acting on instructions. It would be 
terrible to be allowed into Heaven and then 
behave in a vulgar way. 

After racking my brains for a start I asked 
God if there was anything that was interesting 
Him in particular just at the moment. 

He smiled. 

“As it happens,” He said, “there is. Only this 
morning I was looking down over London, and 
almost for the first time I noticed something that 
gave me great pleasure. Pathetic too, in a way; 
but then there is so much pathos- 

“I noticed all the little gardens. I don’t mean 
the gardens where there are gardeners; I mean 
the tiny square yards among the stones and 
squalor, with flowers and shrubs that literally 
fight for life and would never live at all if they 
were not lovingly tended. Sometimes there is a 
rockery, sometimes an attempt at a pool, and 
then the window-boxes—they give Me pleasure 
too, much more than Corporation ornamental 
bedding ever could. Some of these little 
gardens,” He said, “and the gallant struggle 
they make to bring beauty into ugly places, call 
tears to the eyes”; and I believe He meant it, for 
I watched Him. “The poor souls,” He mur¬ 
mured, “the poor, brave souls.” 

“You mentioned Corporation carpet-bedding 



206 


ADVISORY BEN 


just now, Sir,” I said. “You must have noticed 
that English gardens are infinitely more reckless 
and joyful than they used to be? Of course, I 
don’t know what flowers were like, Sir, when 
You began, but every year sees new varieties 
come into being—more lovely delphiniums, 
more ethereal columbines, more glorious tulips, 
more delicate daffodils, and every year more peo¬ 
ple lavish themselves on herbaceous borders and 
wild gardens.” 

“I have certainly noticed it,” said God, “and it 
has given Me immense satisfaction. I know who 
is chiefly responsible for it too,” He added, “and 
her name is very highly honoured here.” 

And then I woke up. 

Here it ended, but at the foot of the page was 
written: “Dear Miss Staveley, I hope this hasn’t 
bored you. I thought I should like you to know 
that I now and then have a thought beyond book 
selling. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Patrick St. Quentin.” 

Patrick was in the shop that evening when Ben 
left. 

He said nothing, but looked expectant. 

“Good night, Mr. St. Quentin,” said Ben, 


ADVISORY BEN 


207 


holding out her hand. “But really I ought to be 
cross with you because you made me neglect my 
work for over an hour.” 

Patrick glowed. 

“You have given me a totally new God,” she 
said, “and I’m going home to think about Him.” 


208 


ADVISORY BEN 


XXXIX 

Guy drove straight from the station to Ben’s 
office. Like Cecil, he, too, was bronzed and hard 
and the typical soldier with his little trim mous¬ 
tache, but he looked worried. 

He embraced her with ardour. 4 ‘You’re very 
pretty,” he said. “I’d forgotten.” 

“Nonsense,” said Ben. “I’m a ‘capable 
woman’; no more and no less.” 

He hold her at arm’s length. “You’re very 
attractive,” he said. “I can’t think why you’re 
not married.” 

“I’ve given you one reason,” said Ben. “ ‘Ca¬ 
pable women’ remain free.” 

“Every woman should be married,” said Guy. 

“Especially Melanie,” said Ben, laughing. 
But Guy did not laugh. His face clouded. 

“Oh, my hat!” he said. “That’s what I came 
to talk to you about. Before I went home even. 
By the way, how is the governor?” 

“Just the same,” said Ben. “His capacity for 
bearing other people’s calamities with fortitude, 
as somebody said, develops every day.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


209 


“And the step?” he asked. 

“Oh, she’s all right,” said Ben; “you’ll like 
her.” 

“Rolls, too, doesn’t she?” Guy inquired. 

“Rolls,” said Ben. 

“Does she let the governor touch it?” asked 
Guy. 

“How little you seem to know of your own 
father!” said Ben. “And I thought of you as a 
wise child.” 

“I may have been once,” said Guy, “but that’s 
all over. Oh, the mess I’ve been getting into!” 

“What kind of a mess?” Ben asked anxiously. 

“On the boat,” said Guy. 

“Cards?” she asked. 

“No, I wish it was. No, I’ve—well, the fact is, 
Ben, my dear, I’m engaged.” 

“I know that,” said Ben. “You’ve been 
engaged for years. Don’t Melanie and I live 
together, and don’t I see her watching for the 
postman?” 

“Oh, cut that out,” said Guy, with a groan. 
“That’s not the engagement I mean. I’m 
engaged to someone else, someone I met on the 
boat.” 

“My dear Guy,” said Ben, “this is awful.” 

“Don’t I know it?” said Guy. 

“But I mean for Melanie,” said Ben. 


210 


ADVISORY BEN 


“For both of us,” said Guy. 

“Can’t you break off the new affair?” Ben 
asked. 

“I suppose I could if I wanted to,” said Guy. 
“But I don’t. I’m potty about her. The other 
thing was a ghastly mistake. Surely,” he went 
on, “you would rather I discovered the mistake 
while there was yet time than go on with it and 
ruin both our lives? I know it sounds like a 
novel, but you know what I mean.” 

“Yes,” said Ben, “I quite agree with that. 
But I wonder if it hasn’t been too quick for you 
to be sure about yourself? You’ve known one 
girl five years and the other less than five weeks.” 

“That’s true,” said Guy. “But I don’t think 
time means much. What about love at first 
sight?” 

“I know,” said Ben. “But liner love— 
especially Indian liner love—is supposed to be 
particularly misleading.” 

“This isn’t,” said Guy firmly. “This is the 
goods. I may be impulsive,” he went on, “but 
I’m not an ass; at any rate I’m not a silly ass. 
I’ve kept my eyes open, and I’ll bet you that for 
every marriage that has gone wrong after a very 
short engagement I can show you two that have 
gone equally wrong after a long one.” 

“I think that’s exceedingly probable,” said 


211 


ADVISORY BEN 

Ben, with a sigh. “What I am thinking is not 
that you are any less likely to be happy with 
your new girl than with Melanie; I am thinking 
of Melanie herself and what is to be done about 
her. What do you mean to do? She’s expecting 
you to-day; looking forward to it. What do you 
mean to do?” 

“Well,” said Guy, “that’s just it. I was won¬ 
dering if you would help me, if you would 
explain.” 

Ben laughed bitterly. “Me again!” she said. 
“ ‘Always go to Ben when you’re in a mess!’ 
Has the liner girl got any money?” she asked. 

“Money! What’s money?” said Guy. “Don’t 
be squalid.” 

“Melanie’s two hundred a year might be very 
useful,” said Ben. 

“You’re too late,” said Guy. He pulled at his 
absurd moustache. “But if you wouldn’t mind 
breaking it to Melanie tactfully, and letting her 
down gently, you’d be a brick. And I’m sure 
you could; no one could do it better. And, by 
Jove! you advertise to do it too—‘Domestic 
Problems.’ Now compared with this one, all 
other domestic problems are ‘also rans.’ Be a 
darling, Ben, and smooth things with Melanie. 
After all, she’s not a child; she knows that in this 
kind of matter minds often change.” 


212 


ADVISORY BEN 

“I know Melanie pretty well,” said Ben, “and 
I should guess you’re making a very foolish mis¬ 
take. She may look bored and take too little 
trouble to make you her slave, but she’s true as 
steel and she’s as fond of you as she can be. And 
another thing, she’s always amusing; and from 
what I know of life, a girl who is always amusing 
is not to be lightly turned down. It isn’t fair to 
break a long engagement like this, without seeing 
her again first.” 

“Oh, as to that,” said Guy, “engagements are 
being broken every day; why not ours? You 
will help me, won’t you?” 

Ben stood up. “No, Guy,” she said, “I won’t. 
Not like that, anyway. Usually when people ask 
me to do things I comply. But not if I don’t 
believe I ought to. In your case I am certain 
that you, and you alone, are the person to ex¬ 
plain. It would be very cowardly not to, and 
you are a soldier and therefore not a coward. 
You owe it to Melanie to tell her yourself, face 
to face; and the sooner you do it, the better. 
That’s my last word.” 

“I think you’re very selfish,” said Guy. 

“I can’t help what you think,” said Ben. 
“That’s my last word. She’ll be at home after 
five. I shan’t get back till seven or later. And 
now I must earn my living.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


213 


Guy went off like a bear, and Ben spent a 
wretched day thinking about Melanie’s misery 
and deploring the fickleness of men and 
Staveleys. 

She was therefore the more rejoiced when on 
reaching Aubrey Walk she heard Melanie sing¬ 
ing in her room and found her arraying herself 
in her best, preparatory to dining with Guy and 
going to the play. 

Ben expressed no surprise. 

“How did Guy strike you?” she asked, after 
a while. 

“At first he seemed awfully gloomy,” said 
Melanie. “He didn’t even seem to want to kiss 
me. But after a little while he got quite like his 
old self again, only more so, and was the nicest 
thing on earth, and he wants the wedding 
directly. This week if possible, he said; but of 
course that’s absurd.” 

At that moment Guy’s taxi was heard and he 
came bounding up the stairs, while Melanio 
retired to complete her toilet. 

He put his fingers on his lips as he met his 
sister. “Not a word,” he said. “It’s all right. 
That other affair was a mistake. Those Indian 
liners, you know. That proverb about being 
off with the old love is a very sound one, and 


214 


ADVISORY BEN 


almost directly I saw Mel again ,1 knew I didn’t 
want to be on with the new.” 

“Have you told the new?” Ben asked. 

“Not yet,” he said. “I was wondering if 


Ben drew back. “Not I!” she exclaimed. 
Guy burst into roars of triumphant laughter. 
“You bought it!” he cried, and roared again. 
“What I was going to say,” he went on, “was 
that I was wondering if you would—post this 
letter to her. I haven’t got a stamp.” 

Ben threw a cushion at him with masterly 
accuracy, as Melanie, all radiance and joy, came 
into the room. 



ADVISORY BEN 


215 


XL 

Merrill, looking very attractive in her weeds, sat 
in Ben’s room, interfering not a little with “The 
Beck and Call’s” machinery. But that, of course, 
is the principal industry of all widows who call 
on business people. 

“I call it very selfish and horrid of Alicia,” 
she said. “Here she is, about to marry this rich 
old ironmonger-” 

“Ironmaster,” Ben corrected. 

“Ironmaster, then. It’s the same thing,” said 
Merrill. “Here she is, anyway, about to be 
happy herself and have all her worries about 
money and about the boys removed for ever, and 
she has the cheek to say that I oughtn’t even to 
see Roland—that’s Captain Andrews, you know 
—for another three months. What do you think 
of that?” 

“Well,” said Ben, “I disagree. I think you 
should do exactly as you want to.” 

“And marry at once?” 

“Certainly, if you want to. It’s nobody’s 


/ 



216 


ADVISORY BEN 


affair but yours and his. You are definitely 
engaged, aren’t you?” 

“Of course,” said Merrill. 

“And there’s nothing to prevent you marrying 
except the possibility of public opinion disap¬ 
proving?” 

“No,” said Merrill, “but people are very 
horrid.” 

“You mustn’t mind people,” said Ben. 
“Surely you know that? If we mind people life 
isn’t worth living. The only thing to consider is 
your happiness. If you had been happy with 
Egbert you would not want to marry again so 
soon, or possibly not at all; but as you weren’t 
happy with him I don’t see any reason for you 
to wait.” 

“The whole question of time is absurd,” said 
Merrill. “Who is it that fixes the interval? Why 
should a year be all right and eleven months all 
wrong? It is ridiculous—with life galloping on 
in the monstrous way it does.” 

“Well,” said Ben, with a despairing glance at 
the letters waiting to be attended to, “the remedy 
is yours. Defy public opinion, and marry next 
week. Go and be registered; get a special 
licence; anything. But do it.” 

“I was wondering,” said Merrill, “whether we 
might not marry now secretly and go abroad, and 


ADVISORY BEN 


217 


then come back and announce it. That would kill 
two birds with one stone: we should be married 
at once, and all those horrid cats, including 
darling Alicia, would be silenced.” 

“You never silence horrid cats,” said Ben. 
“And I’m against anything secret. And I don’t 
suppose Captain Andrews would care about it 
either.” 

“I think he would do as I wish,” said Merrill, 
with a confident smile. 

Only if he liked the wish himself, thought Ben, 
remembering the quiet decisiveness of the plus- 
four warrior; but all she said was that it was a 
pity that Merrill was such a coward. 

“A coward!” exclaimed the widow. “How can 
you? You are as bad as Alicia. And you have 
been a great disappointment to me, too. I always 
thought of you as being so kind and comforting, 
and all you do is to look absent-minded and call 
me a coward.” 

“My dear,” said Ben, “I have encouraged you 
in every possible way. I have even urged you to 
marry at once, which is what you say you want to 
do.” 

“I don’t know that I do want it,” said Merrill. 
“I don’t want to do anything that would be 
unfair to Roland. I don’t mind about myself, 
even though you think I do, but I should never 


218 


ADVISORY BEN 


forgive myself if through marrying too soon 
Roland lost anyone’s respect. I am going now,” 
she said sadly. “I am sorry to have troubled 
you.” 

“Good-bye, darling,” said Ben. “You have 
never looked prettier. If you want someone 
really sympathetic to talk to, step in the shop 
downstairs and ask Mr. Harford to recommend 
you a good book. He’s the one in tweeds.” 

“I was thinking of doing so,” said Merrill. “I 
noticed him as I came in. Good-bye; I hope 
you’ll be nicer next time.” 

“Good-bye, darling,” said Ben. “You have 
never looked prettier. I think Roland the most 
enviable of men.” 

“Cat!” said Merrill, returning suddenly and 
flinging her arms round Ben’s neck. “No, not 
cat—sweetest of hearts! But oh, I’m so mis¬ 
erable !” 

She cried luxuriously for a minute and then 
jumped up smiling. 

“I shall let Roland decide,” she said. 


ADVISORY BEN 


219 


XLI 

“This is rather a blow, your brother coming 
back/’ said Tubby Toller, looking round Ben’s 
office with a critical eye. “It’s done our little 
circle in. Why, he wants to be married in five 
minutes. Highly suspicious, I call it.” 

“What do you mean—suspicious?” Ben asked. 

“When a fellow who’s been engaged for years 
clamours suddenly to marry, all in a moment, it 
suggests that he’s in danger, has lost his nerve, 
wants to be pulled into safety,” said Tubby. “I 
rather fancy Master Guy has been singeing his 
wings.” 

“Oh, Tubby! how cynical you are!” said Ben. 
“What will you be like when you’re fifty?” 

“At fifty,” said Tubby, “I shall be a child 
again. I notice a strong tendency in middle-aged 
men to become childish. But aren’t I right about 
your brother?” 

“You must ask someone else,” said Ben. 

“And I’ll tell you something more,” said 
Tubby. “When you’re married and your hus¬ 
band suddenly begins to give you pearl necklaces 


220 


ADVISORY BEN 


and diamond rings, look out. They’re more 
likely to be from the guilty conscience than the 
loving heart.” 

“Oh, Tubby, shut up!” said Ben. “You’re 
insufferable. But what is it you want? You 
didn’t come here merely to be destructively 
clever, I’m sure.” 

“I came to look round,” said Tubby. “After 
all, a parent may inspect his young, mayn’t he? 
And I consider ‘The Beck and Call’ largely my 
own child. How is it doing?” 

“Not so badly,” said Ben. “I’ve just carried 
out an American commission that netted quite a 
lot.” 

“Thank God for America!” said Tubby. 
“As Canning said, or meant to, ‘The New World 
was called in very largely to redress the bank 
balances of the Old.’ Could you get me a lady- 
cook?” 

“What for?” Ben asked. 

“To be a lady and to cook, of course,” he said. 

“How many in family?” Ben asked. 

“Just the three of us,” he said. 

“Three? Who is the other?” Ben asked. 

“Myself—1,” he replied; “the lady—2; the 
cook—3.” 

“No, I couldn’t,” said Ben. “I couldn’t lend 
myself to such a menage 


ADVISORY BEN 


221 


“But it would be all right,” said Tubby. “The 
cook would act as chaperon when I was talking 
with the lady; and the lady would be on the 
watch when I was visiting the kitchen. I want a 
lady-cook. I feel I should be a better man if I 
had the constant society of a lady-cook—or a 
cook-lady, I don’t mind which.” 

“No,” said Ben firmly. 

“Then will you get me a valet-governess?” 
Tubby asked. “I have a passion for hyphenated 
assistance.” 

“You havenjt got any children,” said Ben. 

“No, but I have clothes,” said Tubby. “And 
I’ll hire a child. Anything to persuade a valet- 
governess to stay.” 

“Tubby, you’re wasting my time,” said Ben. 
“Go back to the Treasury or wherever it is you 
sleep.” 

“Listen to her!—” Tubby invoked the ceiling. 
“She advertises herself as ‘The Beck and Call’ 
and she turns away business! She is rude to 
clients! I came here with money in my purse to 
try and do you a good turn, and you spurn me. 
Now, my dear Ben, be serious. Will you get me 
a chauffeur-billiard-marker?” 

“No!” said Ben, lifting up a paper-weight, as 
Tubby made for the door. 


222 


ADVISORY BEN 


He did, however, go; but three minutes later 
reappeared. 

“IVe been talking to the sportsman outside,” 
he said. “A clever child. I have asked him to 
come to me as a butler-secretary and he seems 
keen. Do you mind?” 

“If you rob me of Dolly,” said Ben, “I’ll never 
speak to you again.” 

“I must do something,” said Tubby. “It 
would be a very serious thing for you if I went 
about London telling everybody that I had been 
to ‘The Beck and Call’ with quite a number of 
needs and not one could you satisfy. Grant me 
one request anyway. Grant me!” 

“What is it?” said Ben. 

“Give me leave to read a novel by Erckmann- 
Chatrian.” 

And this time he went. 


ADVISORY BEN 


223 


XLII 

She was a plump and kindly lady of a little more 
than middle age, with evidences of wealth about 
her and a handkerchief ready for service. 

“You don’t know me,” she said to Ben, “but I 
know you, or rather all about you. In a kind of 
way we’re relations.” 

Ben expressed her surprise. 

“If there is such a thing as a step-aunt,” said 
the lady, “I’m one. I’m Belle’s sister.” 

“Oh!” said Ben. “Mrs. Vicat?” 

Her visitor admitted it. 

“Of course,” said Ben, sympathetically. “I’ve 
heard about you. Your son died quite recently. 
I’m so sorry.” 

The handkerchief came into play. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Vicat. “He never had a 
chance, he was so badly wounded. But he 
lingered on and on and was always so brave. 
And now he’s gone. It’s because I want to do 
something in memory of him that I’m here. My 
sister told me to come to you. ‘Go to “The Beck 
and Call,” ’ she said, ‘and talk to my step- 


224 


ADVISORY BEN 


daughter. She’s very clever and quick at think¬ 
ing of things. But of course you must pay,’ she 
said. 

“As if I should take advantage of being con¬ 
nected with the family!” Mrs. Vicat added indig¬ 
nantly. “So you must charge me for all the time 
you give me, my dear, whether anything comes 
of it or not.” 

“We’ll see,” said Ben. “What kind of a 
memorial were you thinking of?” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Vicat. “At first I was 
thinking of an obelisk or a cross, or something 
like that. You know the kind of thing. There’s 
one in Sloane Square. But somehow I’ve rather 
changed my mind. There are so many of those, 
all over the country, and I’m wondering if it’s 
quite right to put up another just to one officer. 

“And of course,” she continued, “there will be 
a monument in the church: that’s all arranged 
for. I’ve got a nice architect—one that will let 
me have my own way a little, I’m assured; not 
one of those masterful quarrelsome ones. Archi¬ 
tects can be very trying, my dear. You should 
see our house—all the living rooms and the bed¬ 
rooms on the north, and the passages and the 
kitchen and larder on the south! Everything 
sacrificed to the entrance! My poor dear hus¬ 
band argued with him night and day, but he was 


ADVISORY BEN 


225 


too much for us. But that’s neither here nor 
there. The monument is all arranged; it’s the 
memorial I’m worrying about now, and Belle 
told me to come to you.” 

“How much do you want to spend?” Ben 
asked. 

“I don’t mind,” said Mrs. Vicat forlornly. 
“It’s the only interest in life I have left.” 

“Had your son any particular hobbies?” Ben 
asked. “Did he support any particular kind of 
charity?” 

“I can’t say that he did,” said Mrs. Vicat. 
“He had a wonderful collection of postage 
stamps. But that doesn’t help much.” 

“No,” said Ben, puckering her brow. “And 
yet,” she continued, “you would like it to be 
useful?” 

“Yes, I want it to be really helpful,” said Mrs. 
Vicat. “I want my son’s name to be associated 
with something that would benefit people. I saw 
a very pretty drinking-fountain the other day, 
which was also a War Memorial.” 

“But you could afford something bigger than 
that?” Ben suggested. 

“Oh, yes, money is no object. The cenotaph 
is very beautiful.” 

“Very,” said Ben. “But that has a distinct 
purpose and you wouldn’t wish to duplicate it.” 


226 


ADVISORY BEN 


“On the top of a hill,” said Mrs. Vicat. 
“There’s a beautiful high hill near us. Another 
cenotaph there would be most impressive.” 

“But isn’t a cenotaph a monument to someone 
whose real burial place is somewhere else or isn’t 
known?” Ben asked. 

“Is it?” said Mrs. Vicat. “I didn’t know. I 
thought it meant a War Memorial simply.” 

“Since you have come to me for advice,” said 
Ben, “I must say what I feel about this, and that 
is that in memory and honour of your son you 
ought to do something of real practical help for 
his fellow-soldiers in distress. There are many 
incurables among them, and you could, for 
example, build and endow a home—say at the 
seaside—for them—to be comfortable in. That’s 
an idea that occurs to me as I am talking.” 

“I should like that,” said Mrs. Vicat. “That’s 
a very nice idea. Belle said you were clever. 
And of course at the seaside, because then I could 
go down and visit it. I’m very fond of the sea. 
Do you know Littlehampton? I’ve been very 
happy there in that terrace overlooking the green 
where the children ride on donkeys. We took a 
house there one summer and stayed on through 
the winter. So mild. A seaside home at Little¬ 
hampton is a charming notion.” 

“If you would give me a little time to think 


ADVISORY BEN 


227 


and perhaps discuss the matter with others,” said 
Ben, “I am sure I could put some more ideas 
before you. I should like to; it’s the kind of task 
that would give me great pleasure to carry out. 
Will you come to-morrow at three?” 

And Mrs. Vicat agreed, and, dabbing afresh 
at her eyes, made her way to her very luxurious 
limousine. 

“Your employer is very clever,” were her last 
words to Dolly, who helped her downstairs, as she 
gave him a shilling. On this, being a supersti¬ 
tious London boy, he was mindful, as soon as the 
car had moved on, to spit. 


228 


ADVISORY BEN 


XLIII 

At dinner that evening, Melanie was sounded 
as to the memorial, but Melanie had her own 
affairs in hand. When a girl is within a few 
days of her marriage, she can’t concentrate on 
outside questions such as this, no matter how 
humane she may be. 

She was an odd girl, with no romance showing, 
whatever there might be underneath. Her eyes 
were incapable of surprise; her mind of wonder. 
It is a great loss, and too many girls seem to be 
suffering from it. In speech she was candid; in 
hearing, careless; very particular that you should 
not misunderstand her, but not in the least wor¬ 
ried by the chance of misunderstanding you— 
often, indeed, not listening to replies at all. 

These are not qualities that on the face of 
them make for the happiest unions, but along 
with them Melanie had a great sense of duty, 
and one never knows how a girl may develop after 
marriage. Men and husbands are not so widely 
different; but girls and brides can be divided 
by such a gulf as to be almost strangers. A girl 


ADVISORY BEN 


229 


passing under her lover’s glamour can emerge a 
changed being. 

“We had a bit of a shindy to-day, Guy and I,” 
said Melanie. “Over the ring. He wants me to 
have a wedding ring and I refused. I can’t bear 
the things. They make me shudder. It’s bad 
enough to go to church with him and endure that 
disgusting service, without being branded for 
ever more with a gold band. It’s only one remove 
from the ring in the bull’s nose. I’m no more 
Guy’s wife because I’ve got it than I should be 
without it. If I agree to marry him, I marry him. 
A very unbecoming piece of metal on my hand 
can’t make the difference, not to a decent wo¬ 
man.” 

“It was a new idea to Guy, I expect,” said Ben. 

“Absolutely,” said Melanie. “He seemed 
thunderstruck.” 

“He’s not so advanced as you,” said Ben. 
“And I expect he was perplexed, because you 
don’t mind wearing an engagement ring.” 

“That’s different,” said Melanie. “It’s beauti¬ 
ful. There’s some reason for that. But even 
that I don’t wear on the ordinary finger. Why 
should all the world know I’m engaged? Guy 
doesn’t wear a ring to advertise the fact; why 
should I?” 

“He probably would if you asked him,” said 


230 


ADVISORY BEN 


Ben. “And he’d wear a wedding ring too. He’d 
be proud to.” 

“Don’t you think I’m right?” Melanie asked. 

“No, I don’t,” said Ben. “Apart altogether 
from the fact that Guy is my brother, I don’t 
think it’s fair to either of you. Take your honey¬ 
moon, for example. I don’t know where you’re 
going, but probably to some hotel. The first 
thing the people at the desk look at is your left 
hand, and if there’s no wedding ring on it your 
character has gone completely, and Guy’s is not 
what it might be.” 

“But who cares what anyone else thinks?” 
Melanie asked. 

“All of us,” said Ben, “in one way or another. 
But this is a case where both of you ought to 
agree. If Guy took your attitude about wedding 
rings, I shouldn’t have a word to say; but as he 
objects, I think you ought to give way.” 

“Confound your cold common sense,” saJd 
Melanie. “I will think about it. But this pub¬ 
lic flaunting of one’s bondage is hateful.” 

“You may not think it bondage later on,” said 
Ben. “If you don’t, you’re all right. If you’re 
going to for ever, I wish you’d break the whole 
thing off at this moment.” 

Melanie left her chair, and, going over to Ben, 
gave her a light kiss on her hair. 


ADVISORY BEN 


231 


“Don’t worry,” she said. 

It was more reassuring than any other woman’s 
oath on the Good Book. 

After dinner Ben carried the problem to Uncle 
Paul, whom she found looking utterly miserable. 

“My dear!” said Ben. “ You’re not ill, are you ? 
You frighten me.” 

“No,” said Uncle Paul weakly. “I’m not 
bodily ill. But life is a blank—they’re cleaning 
out the Round Pond.” 

Ben put the matter before him. 

“As step-aunt,” she said, “doesn’t mind what 
she spends, isn’t this a gorgeous opportunity to 
do something really worth doing? And she’s so 
absurdly amenable, ready to take advice. Just 
like putty. There never was such a chance to be 
really useful. 

“So many things,” she continued, “begin well 
and then decline. Village reading-rooms, with 
stone tablets in the wall saying in whose honour 
they were built, are opened with a great flourish, 
and the next time you go there they are closed 
and the windows broken. Clubs and institutes 
the same. But we can provide against all that. 
It mustn’t be enough just to build; there must 
be endowment, and responsible caretakers or 
managers, for whatever we do. 

“I suppose,” she continued, “as a matter of 


232 


ADVISORY BEN 


fact, country people don’t want village institutes; 
they want the village pump. That’s where they 
really enjoy meeting and talking.” 

“Some friends of mine,” said Uncle Paul, 
“made a beautiful garden in their village, as a 
memorial. A lawn in the midst for the children 
to play on, and seats and shelters all round for 
the old people. And flowers. All properly 
looked after. That was a really good idea.” 

“I like that,” said Ben. “But there might be 
something more costly too. I shall go on think¬ 
ing. And I’ll ask Mr. St. Quentin.” 



ADVISORY BEN 


233 


XLIV 

The next morning when Ben entered “The 
Booklovers’ Rest” it appeared to be empty. Not 
a sign even of Ernie Bent, who usually had to be 
removed from the doorstep, which he was scrub¬ 
bing, to let her pass. 

And then from the depths came the wistful 
words: 

Bring back, bring back. 

Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me! 

and Patrick hobbled out. 

“I didn’t know it was you,” he said, and 
flushed. 

“I wanted to try your pet divination scheme 
again,” said Ben. “May I?” 

“Of course,” said Patrick. 

“I will just fumble for a book,” said Ben! 

She closed her eyes, approached the shelves and 
took down a volume. Then she opened it, read 
a few words, and smiled. 

“Was it all right?” Patrick asked. 

“I think so,” she said, and was about to run up 
the stairs, but stopped. “Oh, by the way, Mr. 


234 


ADVISORY BEN 


St. Quentin,” she said, “I’ve got a client coming 
to-day to talk about a memorial to her son: some¬ 
thing philanthropic and costly. If I were to ask 
you to come up and join us, could you—would 
you?” 

“With the greatest pleasure,” said Patrick, 
“especially as there’s a catalogue due and I ought 
to be at work on it. But neglecting work is so 
agreeable.” 

“Soon after three,” said Ben, and ascended to 
her own domain. 

When there, however, she received a shock, for 
instead of the ordinary placid and competent Jan, 
was a nervous unhappy Jan, saying that she had 
been to see the doctor on the evening before and 
he had ordered her to stop work instantly and go 
to Bournemouth or Torquay. 

“Of course I shall do nothing of the kind until 
I can find you someone else,” she said, “but I 
know I’m not well. I’ve been feeling weak for a 
long while now and I have horrible nights.” 

“I’m very sorry,” said Ben. “It’s a good deal 
my fault too, for allowing you to go on having 
no proper lunch and getting no midday break. I 
blame myself seriously, but you know, Jan, you 
were very obstinate. What does the doctor say 
it is?” 

“He’s afraid I may go into a decline,” said Jan, 


ADVISORY BEN 


235 


“unless I have good air, and do nothing, and 
drink milk and eat a lot; and—and—I’d much 
rather be with you.” 

Mrs. Vicat arrived puffingly to time and again 
placed her handkerchief within easy range. 

“Well, my dear,” she said, “what have you de¬ 
cided? I hope it’s the Littlehampton home.” 

“I want you to hear what Mr. St. Quentin, one 
of the owners of the book shop downstairs, has to 
say,” said Ben. 

She rang the bell for Dolly and asked him to 
invite Mr. St. Quentin to step up. 

“This is Mrs. Vicat,” said Ben, and she pre¬ 
pared the ground. “Have you any ideas?” 

“As a matter of fact, I have,” said Patrick. 
“I have been thinking of nothing else all the 
morning, and I believe I have the answer. May 
I say how it strikes me; and you will forgive me 
if I am too long? 

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “of the men 
blinded in the war. They have always been on 
my mind, but I never had a chance to help. Los¬ 
ing limbs is a disaster of a totally different kind; 
it’s a bore, of course, to have a wooden leg, and 
be unable to join in sports any more, and so on; 
but it’s nothing to squeal about. Whereas losing 
sight—that’s terrible. 


236 


ADVISORY BEN 


“I should doubt if any quarrel between na¬ 
tions is worth such a price as one blinded man. 

“Sight is too glorious a possession. I have 
been shutting my eyes at intervals all the morn¬ 
ing and realizing what it must be like never to 
open them again. 

“ ‘Never’—that is the appalling word. 

“I don’t mean only what every one who cares 
anything for the beauty of nature would miss— 
the first primrose, the new moon, a starry night, 
a yacht race, snow on the trees. Those are the 
obvious things and probably many a soldier had 
thought little enough about them. But put your¬ 
self in the position of a blinded soldier and think 
of his loss. The pretty girls, for example. That 
must be a loss indeed—the faces and figures of 
the pretty girls. You know how soldiers in their 
shirt-sleeves lean on the sills of barrack windows 
and compare notes on the girls who pass? Not 
too edifying perhaps, but think of the poor devils 
who can do this no more. 

“And games—never to see another football 
match, another cricket match. I have seen blind 
men led into Lord’s and watched their poor 
baulked faces as the sound of the bat against the 
ball is heard and the crowd cheers a boundary hit. 
They like to be there—they have the sense of still 


ADVISORY BEN 237 

being in it; they can’t bear not to participate in 
life—but the loss! 

“I have seen them in theatres and music halls 
too, often; and there the spoken word still has 
its message; but oh, their baffled look when the 
laughter depends upon gesture! 

“And then think of what blindness must mean 
to those who have loved pictures. The sense of 
touch, intensely developed, may reveal much, and 
certainly the beauty of shape, but it can convey 
no idea of colour. Finger tips passing over the 
surface of a Corot learn nothing of its beauty; the 
National Gallery for ever more is blotted out.” 

Patrick paused and blushed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to become 
rhetorical. But it’s too sad and I was carried 
away.” 

Mrs. Vicat, who had been quietly weeping for 
some time, implored him to go on. 

“Everything you say is so right,” she assured 
him. “And what do you propose?” 

“I haven’t any very useful suggestions,” Pat¬ 
rick said, “but the endowment of new Braille 
presses might be considered. Many of the men, 
however, cannot be very much given to reading. 
What about broadcasting installations? They 
are all fond of music. Why shouldn’t there be a 


238 


ADVISORY BEN 


grant of a wireless set to all institutions or houses 
where blinded soldiers are to be found ?” 

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t like to do for the 
blinded soldiers,” said Mrs. Vicat, when he had 
finished. “And if you can arrange the Braille 
presses and the broadcasting too, I’ll gladly pay 
what is necessary; but I had”—she almost whim¬ 
pered—“set my heart on a seaside home, and I 
don’t see that for the blind that is needed. What 
they want, as I understand it, is to be kept em¬ 
ployed, beguiled; their minds and hands are to 
be continuously occupied so that they mayn’t 
brood and mope. Isn’t that it?” 

“Yes,” said Patrick. “That’s a very great part 
of it. That’s certainly the kindest thing we can 
do—to find them absorbing occupations and to 
make life a pleasure, if not actually an excite¬ 
ment, still.” 

“When I came in,” said Mrs. Vicat to Ben, 
“I fancied that girl at the desk outside was cry¬ 
ing. Is she unhappy?” 

“Poor Jan!” said Ben. “Yes, she’s just had a 
great shock. The doctor has told her that she 
must stop work and retire to some southern place, 
or she is in danger of going into a decline. She’s 
miserable about it—partly for herself but a great 
deal for me, because she doesn’t like to leave me 
in the lurch, she says.” 


ADVISORY BEN 239 

“Ah!” said Mrs. Vicat, with sudden cheeriness, 
“now I’ve got it!” 

She beamed on them with radiant triumph. 

“What?” exclaimed Ben. 

“The seaside home,” she said. “We’ll have 
the seaside home after all. Not for blinded sol¬ 
diers—they shall be dealt with all right, Mr. 
St. Quentin, never fear!—but for poor working 
girls who need change and rest from London and 
can’t afford it. Oh, how happy I am! I did 
so want that seaside home and now I’ve got it. 
Your poor girl can’t go there this time because it 
won’t be ready; but will you see about it at once, 
my dear? I leave the whole thing to you. You 
can build a new house or you can take an old 
house and adapt it. I’ll have all the papers made 
out by my lawyer at once. And we’ll call it the 
‘Adrian Vicat Seaside Home.’ Will you do it?” 

“Of course I will,” said Ben. 

“And you’ll find out all about the other 
things ?” Mrs. Vicat inquired of Patrick. 

“At once,” he said. 

“I’m so happy,” exclaimed Mrs. Vicat again. 
“Now my mind is perfectly at rest.” 

She went away in tearful content and Dolly 
was summoned to assist her again to the car and 
to receive the usual guerdon. 

“Thank you,” said Ben to Patrick. “You were 


240 


ADVISORY BEN 


splendid. I think we may call this a truly red- 
letter day. It’s all most inspiring; but one thing 
in particular gives me enormous satisfaction.” 

“And that?” Patrick asked. 

“You and I were in absolute agreement.” 

“But you didn’t say a word.” 

“No, there was no need. But when I tried the 
Sortes Virgilianae this morning what do you think 
I stumbled on? Milton.” 

“Well?” said Patrick. 

“Well, it opened at ‘Samson Agonistes’!” 



ADVISORY BEN 


241 


XLV 

“I set out intending to pay you just a friendly 
call,” said Aunt Agatha, “but coming through 
the shop downstairs I saw such a lot of books that 
now I’m going to be a client too. You see they 
gave me an idea. I’d quite forgotten what a lot 
of books there are in the world and how little I 
know of them. But now I think I really must 
try to know more, so I want you to find me a 
nice girl to read to me. A girl with a clear voice, 
mind. From half-past five to seven, I think. No, 
there are often callers then. From half-past two 
till tea. No, that’s when I sometimes like a nap. 
In the morning, then. No, one mustn’t be read 
to in the morning. Well, my dear, let it be after 
lunch then, and if I fall asleep now and again it 
doesn’t really matter. But she mustn’t read what 
they call bed books.” 

“I wonder if you really want me to get the 
girl at all,” said Ben. 

“Of course I do, dear. It’s terrible, it’s dis¬ 
graceful, to think of how little time I have left 
in which to learn anything of all those books, and 


242 


ADVISORY BEN 


I’m sure I couldn’t read them to myself. Please 
get me a nice girl with a refined and distinct 
voice—so many girls have adenoids, don’t you 
think?—to begin, not next week but the week 
after next. I’ll spend next week in clearing up 
and getting ready for her. 

“I suppose a girl is best,” she continued after 
a moment’s thought. “A young man wouldn’t 
do ? And yet I see such lots of advertisements in 
The Times Personal Column—how interesting 
that is and how sad sometimes!—I’m told that all 
those funny love letters, as they sound like, are 
really burglars’ codes. Isn’t that dreadful? But 
so every one says. But about this gentleman 
reader, there are such lots of advertisements 
from disabled officers wanting employment that 
perhaps one ought to consider one. I wonder 
how disabled officers read aloud, dear? Rather 
strong voices, I’m afraid, after so much drilling. 
I shouldn’t like to be shouted at. Speaking of 
disabled officers, there’s a rather nice lame man 
in the shop downstairs who showed me the way 
up. I suppose you’ve noticed him, dear? I think 
I must buy something from him on the way out, 
so as not to disappoint him. I wonder if he’s got 
a Longfellow? I used to love Longfellow when 
I was a girl. That man getting another to pro¬ 
pose for him and the other one being the real one 


ADVISORY BEN 243 

—I haven’t read it for years. We might begin 
with that. 

“I hope someone is going to propose to you, 
my dear,” Aunt Agatha went on. “So pretty 
and clever as you are, and so managing. People 
tell me this office is wonderfully run. I don’t say 
I want you to marry the lame man downstairs, 
but I’m sure he’s a gentleman, he has such a 
charming voice, and he’s very good-looking. All 
but the leg. But legs aren’t everything. What’s 
that proverb about helping a lame man over a 
stile? How well you’d do that! 

“I hope I’m not taking up your time, dear,” 
Aunt Agatha continued; “but it’s such a long 
while since you came to see me, and if I’m a 
nuisance you must make me pay half a crown, 
or whatever it is you charge for an hour’s inter¬ 
view.” 

“What makes you think Mr. St. Quentin, the 
lame man downstairs, would make me a good hus¬ 
band?” Ben asked. 

“I liked the look of him,” said Aunt Agatha. 
“He looked kind and he’s a gentleman. And I 
don’t think it’s a bad thing to be a book seller. 
Anyone may do that now, and he’d bring you 
home the new novels. Besides, it’s a good thing 
to marry a man who’s out of the house all day. I 
hate to see husbands in to lunch. All wrong. 


244 


ADVISORY BEN 


Home lunches are for women. Besides, my dear, 
there’s an epidemic of marrying in the Staveley 
family and you’ll catch it. You can’t escape. 
Look at your father! And then I’m told that 
Alicia is engaged again to someone at Hove. A 
widower. I always said that Hove was too near 

Brighton. What is the proverb—‘Marry in-’ 

Oh, no, it’s not Hove, it’s Hastings: ‘Marry in 
Hastings and repent at leisure.’ How silly of 
me, but they’re both on the South Coast. 

“And poor Merrill, she came to see me the 
other day. All in black, the rouge, and looking so 
demure; but if I were one of those bookmakers 
who advertise in the papers that they never pay, 
I’d go so far as to bet a pony—it was a pony that 
your uncle always put on for me on the Derby 
favourite year after year, but how seldom the 
favourites win!—I’d bet a pony, 'whatever it 
means, that she’s got another man in her eye. I 
could see him lurking there, the rascal, and not a 
clergyman this time, I’ll be bound. I taxed her 
with it, and she said ‘No’ with such a pretty 
blush that there wasn’t any doubt at all. 

“And then there’s Guy come all the way from 
India to marry your friend. It’s wonderful, I 
think, that that engagement should have lasted 
so long, and he in India too, where men fall in 
love so easily. They say that absence makes the 



ADVISORY BEN 


245 


heart grow fonder, but don’t you believe it, my 
dear. There’s a better proverb than that which 
says, ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’ But I can’t 
admire Guy’s constancy too much; he’s a regular 
Don Juan; no, I don’t mean that—Don Quixote; 
no, that other man, without fear and without re¬ 
proach—Bayard. He’s a regular Bayard. Not 
only to have gone all through his life in India 
loving her truly, but to have been faithful on the 
ship too! That’s.marvellous. I have the deepest 
respect for him. Indeed, my dear, I almost rank 
him with you. 

“It shows how susceptible all you Staveleys 
are, and unless you’re very careful, my dear, you’ll 
fall too. You ought to be inoculated. Not that 
inoculation’s any good. I never had such severe 
colds as after the doctor injected what he called 
my own culture into my arm. Culture—I didn’t 
know I’d got any. I thought that was confined 
to the universities. But sneeze! You should 
have heard me. Perhaps you did?—I’m only 
about a mile from Campden Hill. Well, dear, 
I’m a foolish old woman and I’m sure I’ve talked 
a lot of rubbish; but I’m very fond of you and 
you always do me good. 

“And now I must be going. I’m so glad to 
have seen you in your place of business. And 
you’ll get me a nice girl, won’t you? We decided 


246 


ADVISORY BEN 


on a girl, didn’t we? Yes, I think it must be a 
girl, because sometimes I should like her to take 
me to the pictures instead of reading. Reading 
can be rather tedious. And it would never do for 
me to go to the pictures with a disabled officer, 
would it? A nice girl, then. The week after 
next. Half-past two to four. Without ade¬ 
noids.” 


ADVISORY BEN 


247 


XL VI 

Ben was receiving her first visit from her step¬ 
mother. 

“First of all let me thank you so much for 
being so kind to my sister,” Belle said. “She’s 
not a very decisive person. Perhaps you gathered 
that?” 

Ben admitted it. 

“Anyone at all emphatic can do what they like 
with her,” said Belle. “And that’s why I’m so 
glad she’s in your hands. 

“But that’s not what I came about,” said the 
comfortable lady as she sank luxuriously into a 
chair. “You must forgive me butting in like this, 
but I want help badly and only you can give it.” 

“The cook hasn’t left?” Ben asked. 

“Oh, no. She seems to be satisfied, if one dare 
use such a strong word about a cook, or indeed 
any servant, nowadays. No, it’s not the cook, it’s 
your father.” 

“Yes?” said Ben. 

“Well, it’s rather a difficult think to talk about 
to a daughter—and a stepdaughter too—and one 


248 


ADVISORY BEN 


knows what stepmothers are supposed to be—but 
I’m all at sea about him. He’s so different from 
what I was expecting—from what he promised, 
in fact. When we were talking about the sec¬ 
ond marriage he was so thoughtful and consider¬ 
ate of me, so generous, always brought me flowers 
or some little thing, and you know how fond I am 
of marrons glacets —too fond, the doctor says— 
and I was very lonely, you know, and I had felt 
so neglected since Vincent died; and it did really 
seem as if I was to have someone to pet me again 
after all. Because Vincent, you know, was the 
kindest man. There was nothing he wouldn’t do 
to please me; he was always bringing cushions, 
and arranging for week-ends in nice hotels, and 
motor trips. 

“Well, so was your father at first; but this is 
what is troubling me: Vincent kept it up to the 
end, but your father has dropped it already. 
Now, what I want to know, dear, is this: is it just 
your father’s way or has he got tired of me?” 

“Oh, I don’t think he’s got tired of you,” said 
Ben, earnestly. 

“Was he like that to your mother?” Belle 
asked. 

“He wasn’t very thoughtful of little things, 
ever,” said Ben. “But he was fond of her.” 

“Yes,” said Belle. “But how did he show it? 


ADVISORY BEN 


249 


It isn’t enough for me to be merely in a house 
with a man; see him at dinner and watch him 
reading the paper and, what is much worse, hear¬ 
ing him do it—you have no notion how that 
rustling gets on one’s nerves, when he turns over; 
that isn’t marriage to me. And he is so particular 
about the food and the service. Was he always 
like that?” 

“He was always rather—well, I might almost 
say fussy,” Ben admitted. 

“I wouldn’t mind his fussiness if he was fussy 
over me too,” said Belle. “But he isn’t. It is 
all for his own comfort. Of course we’re all self¬ 
ish, I know. Every one’s selfish. I’m selfish and 
I’m lazy. But I do try to play the game, and I 
don’t think he does. And I’m getting fright¬ 
ened.” She lowered her voice and drew her chair 
nearer. “Because, I’ve got the idea that Vincent 
knows. I’ve got the idea that he’s looking. I 
can’t say exactly where he’s looking from; I can’t 
see him with my mind’s eye at all—but I feel that 
he is looking. Out of some kind of window up 
there, I suppose; for he was a good man, Vincent 
was—a dear, good man, kind and open-handed 
and ready to think the best of every one, even 
if he did use awful language sometimes and take 
a little too much wine now and then; but he was 
so nice in his cups, as they say, not like some 


250 


ADVISORY BEN 


people at all: gentle and exaggeratedly polite, 
even though a little maudlin. In spite of all this, 
I’m sure he’s up there. But it’s dreadful think¬ 
ing that he’s looking on and knowing and being 
sorry for me and”—she sank her voice still lower 
—“hating your father. Because, my dear, it’s 
going to make me hate him too. There, I’ve said 
it.” 

“Oh, no, Belle!” cried Ben. “You mustn’t, 
you mustn’t.” 

“But I can’t help it,” said Belle. “It’s coming 
on, and if it gets worse I shall leave him. There’s 
nothing to stay for now”—she sobbed a little— 
“but if it got worse it would be a sin to stay on.” 

While her stepmother had been talking Ben’s 
thoughts had flown to the future and all that 
the breaking up of her father’s present establish¬ 
ment would mean; but only hazily. Directly she 
was left alone they assumed the clearest of out¬ 
lines. For if her father were single again what 
would he do ? It was only too evident: he would 
request his daughter to return. And what would 
she do? She would have to say yes. She would 
not have the courage—or possibly even the right 
—to say no. Horrible to lose all this independ¬ 
ence, this amusing work just as it was beginning 
to pay. But it would be inevitable, because he 
was her father, and he was getting.old, and she 


ADVISORY BEN 251 

would have no real reason to offer against it, 
being free as she was. 

If it had been anyone else’s father she would 
not have liked him at all, she found herself think¬ 
ing. Ought the accident of parentage to entail 
such self-sacrificing devotion as it often does? 
Anyway, it did; and so long as she was free she 
would probably have to return. 

But supposing she was not free! Her heart 
fluttered. 

If she were not free—if she had thrown in her 
lot with another—her father would have no 
right . . . 


252 


ADVISORY BEN 


XLVII 

It was about half-past ten when the door of 
“The Beck and Call” office opened and admitted 
Mr. St. Quentin. 

Ben was alone. “Dolly has a day off,” she said, 
“and Miss Marquard is accumulating things 
for a number of our people, or I would ask you 
into the back room. 

“What is the news?” she asked. 

“Oh, I mustn’t talk about news,” said Pat. 
“I’ve come as a client.” 

Ben laughed. “A client! That’s splendid,” 
She became very businesslike. “What can we do 
for you to-day?” 

“It’s perhaps rather an odd request,” said Pat, 
“but I was wondering if you could help me to 
find—well, in point of fact, a wife. For myself, 
I mean.” 

Ben reeled for a moment under the suddenness 
of the shock. 

“A wife!” she then exclaimed, blushing a little 
and fumbling for her notebook. Anything to re¬ 
gain composure! 


ADVISORY BEN 


253 


“Yes,” said Pat. “There’s nothing so extraor¬ 
dinary about that, is there? Lots of men have 
wanted wives ever since the world began. In 
fact, there’s a rumour that that is why it has gone 

55 

on. 

“Yes—I know—I’ve heard,” Ben replied. 
She was recovering her nerve now. “But we 
don’t transact business like that here. You want 
a matrimonial agency, if there are such things.” 

“No, I want ‘The Beck and Call.’ I have the 
greatest faith in it,” said Pat. “I believe it can 
get me one—if it will.” 

He looked at her with a smile in his grave eyes 
until she looked away; but she was smiling too. 

“I’m afraid-” she began. 

“At any rate,” he said briskly, “let me describe 
my requirements and then perhaps you’ll know 
better. Age, shall we begin with age?” 

“If you insist on treating this as a marriage 
office, yes,” said Ben. 

“I do,” said Pat. “Age, then: twenty-three or 
four.” 

“Yes,” said Ben. 

“But you haven’t written it down,” said Pat. 
“This is a serious request. I am honestly asking 
your help, and I’ve never been a real client before. 
First impressions, you know.” 



254 


ADVISORY BEN 


“Very well then,” said Ben, making the note: 
“twenty-three or four.” 

“Height, medium,” said Pat. “Hair, dark. 
Eyes, grey-blue. Have you got all that?” 

“I’ve taken it down,” said Ben. 

“Voice, musical,” Pat went on. “Laugh, deli¬ 
cious.” 

Ben looked away as she affected to write. 

“Is that essential?” she asked. 

“Absolutely,” said Pat. “Must be in busi¬ 
ness,” he went on. “No idle woman need apply. 
This kind of business would be all right.” 

“Do you mean she is to continue in business 
when she is married?” Ben asked. 

“I should leave that to her,” said Pat; “but I 
hope so.” 

“Aren’t you rather narrowing it down?” Ben 
asked. “Making it rather difficult for yourself?” 

“I was trying to make it more easy for ‘The 
Beck and Call,’ ” he said. “If the essentials are 
so explicitly stated, so little time need be wasted 
on the search.” 

“You have been wonderfully explicit,” said 
Ben. “But what about yourself? The girl—if 
she is found—will naturally want to know some¬ 
thing about her husband, who at present, of 
course, is a stranger to her. What is she to be 
told?” 


ADVISORY BEN 


2 55 


“That he is utterly unworthy,” said Pat; “a 
man of twenty-seven who was knocked about in 
the War; a bit of a dreamer; a second-hand book 
seller with an ambition to write; fairly amiable in 
temper; fairly sound in health, but for a slight 
deficit in the number of legs normally served out 
to men; and, although, as I said, utterly un¬ 
worthy, filled, for a woman of the kind specified, 
with worship, admiration, and love. Do you 
think you could find a wife for a fellow like this?” 
he asked. 

Ben was silent. She stood still with lowered 
eyes and a heart beating much too fast, but very, 
very happy. 

“Do you?” he asked again. 

It was fortunate that no other inquirers arrived 
at that moment, for they would have found some¬ 
thing very like a Universal Aunt in the arms of 
a second-hand book seller with only one leg. 


256 


ADVISORY BEN 


XLVIII 

Mr. Paul Mostyn to Miss Benita Staveley: 

“My Dearest Ben, 

“I have been a very long time in resort¬ 
ing to ‘The Beck and Call’ for assistance; but 
now I have a real need. Will you go to the best 
Bond Street jewellers and buy a ring regardless 
of cost? It is a wedding present for one I am 
very fond of. Choose it as though it were for 
yourself. 

“I am, 

“Your devoted, 

“Uncle Paul” 


XLIX 

Mr. Toby Staveley to Miss Benita Staveley: 

“Darling old Ben, 

“What a lark! I am preparing the 
best suite in the place for your honeymoon. All 
the best, honey, from your loving brother, 

“Toby Staveley 
“Manager 

“Fairmile Towers County Club, Ltd.” 


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